


Miracle on Islington High Street

by Jaybeefoxy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Greg Lestrade, Christmas, Christmas AU, Christmas Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magical Realism, Yuletide, mystrade, papa lestrade, this is edging into fake relationship territory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: It's Christmas, and Greg does a favour for someone, only to receive a strange favour in return.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 84
Kudos: 351
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2019





	1. Home is Where the Heart Is

**Author's Note:**

> A little bit of Christmas magical romantic fluff...

“Oh dear, I’m sorry, Ramesh, I don’t have enough…”

“That’s okay, Mrs G. What shall I take off the list?”

“Oh...better make it the Christmas cake. I can do without…” The old lady watched the young shop assistant with a wistful look in her eye as he took the fruitcake out of the bag and removed it from the till screen. 

“That’ll be £9.89 then, please, Mrs G.”

“There you go, dear.” The lady handed over a ten pound note and Ramesh gave her the small amount of change. Greg watched as she moved toward the door. Ramesh watched her go too, his eyes wistful.

“Shame about her,” the lad said, to nobody in particular. 

“Why?” Greg asked. “She lives opposite me in the flats, but I don’t really know her.”

“Husband died a couple of years ago, she lives alone now. They had kids but one is in Oz and the other lives up north. Never sees her.” 

“Shame,” Greg said, partly because he felt it was expected of him. He knew it was more than a shame, really. Not having kids, he couldn’t really relate but he still lived alone. He could relate to days spent not seeing another soul with only your own voice to listen to. If you had kids… Seemed like none of them wanted to look after their aging parents any more. He had heard enough gripes from colleagues about their own offspring to make him thankful he’d never had any. “Here, add that to my stuff, will you?” Greg said, gesturing to the cake. 

“Oh, okay.” Ramesh scanned his purchases through and Greg paid up, taking his leave with a cheery wave. There were a few weeks left to the Festive season, and he was facing yet another Christmas watching crap telly, eating another microwave meal and probably downing a few beers. Although it seemed like there others might be in a worse state than he was.

When he reached the flats, he opened his door, then left the cake in a bag on Mrs Golightly’s doorstep, rang her bell a couple of times, then retreated into his own flat. He watched through the peephole on his door as the old lady opened it, looked around, then down, and saw her smile when she saw the cake. She looked across at his door, smiled again, and then retreated inside. Greg’s heart warmed. It was a small gesture, but he hated to see anyone go without. He decided that an anonymous bag of groceries on her doorstep now and again wouldn’t come amiss. 

A few days later, Greg left a Tesco bag full of food on Mrs Golightly’s doorstep before he left for work, ringing her bell and nipping off down the stairs before she caught him at it. He got in his car and drove off, unaware of the lady watching his departure with a smile. 

Unbeknownst to him, she had seen him as he left the building, and her smile was a thoughtful one as she moved away from her window and back to her knitting. Such a nice young man, but so lonely. She decided to light a candle for him the next time she was passing church…

Over the next few weeks, he got into a routine, adding bits of extra shopping to his trolley at the supermarket—a pack of Rich Teas, bread and butter, milk, a few cakes, nothing too extravagant—leaving the small bag of groceries on Mrs G’s doorstep when he went back home, or as he left for work. He tried hard to make sure she never knew who was leaving the stuff, watching through his spyhole on the door to make sure she got the bag. He always rang twice, two short bings on the bell. Somehow, he always wanted her to know the groceries had been delivered, but didn’t want her to know it was him. He didn’t want to make her embarrassed or awkward. His own mum was dead these twenty years but the truth was, if his mum had been in the same position, Greg would have wanted someone to care for her the same way. 

Christmas approached, and Greg was pondering on what to buy for Sally when the doorbell rang, twice. _Crap…_ There was nobody there when he answered it, but a small box was sitting on the mat. He bent to pick it up and retreated inside. Opening the box, he drew out a small reddish stone, rough and flat, vaguely heart-shaped. Underneath it was a note, in spidery handwriting…

_“Hearts that are kind deserve kindness returned, but hearts that are kind despite their own wounds are even more deserving of finding their heart’s desire. When the last moon of the year is full, rub this stone three times round with your left thumb, ask for five things, then sleep with it beneath your pillow for seven nights, and you shall have your heart’s desire before Yuletide is done._

_Ask once for someone related by blood._

_Ask once for a stranger._

_Ask once for a friend._

_Ask once for someone who needs it._

_Ask once for yourself._

_You shall know for whom you need to ask. Ask in certainty, and ask honestly. Once you have found your magic, please pass the stone on to someone who may need a helping hand, as I have done to you and may you have hope, love, compassion, health, and happiness this Yuletide, now and forever more.”_

Greg stared at the note, frowning. _Well, this is a bit...mad,_ he thought. Then he chuckled. _Can’t do any harm,_ he supposed, staring down at the piece of paper. _Ask once for someone related by blood?_ He didn’t have many relatives left… There was Elise, back in France, his cousin. She had kids… That set him wondering, so he booted up the computer and sent off a quick email, then googled when the next full moon was. Four days. He had four days to prepare for this… 

**Four days to go…**

_A stranger? Who would that be?_ Greg spent the following day catching up on paperwork and policy meetings. Since turning Chief Inspector life was now full of paperwork, policy meetings and other mundanities and he was letting his mind wander as he made himself his fourth coffee. _Stranger…?_ He sighed. _Why am I even contemplating this,_ he wondered? _It’s rubbish. Nobody believes in magic stones._

Seemed his cousin, Elise, was having trouble with her eldest, Leo. Her reply to his email popped up at lunchtime. It was long, as though she had nobody else to pour it all out to. _Perhaps she didn't_ , he thought with concern, resolving to stay more closely in touch. Elise’s eldest, Chloe, was in university and doing well, but Leo… he was being bullied at school. Greg knew the kid was gay, he'd come out to his mum only last year. Elise, thankfully, was supportive of her son, but he was having trouble with his peers accepting him. She went on at length about her problems, having split from her long-term partner, Pierre, a few months ago. She finished off by saying how nice it was to hear from her cousin, etc. etc. and he would have to visit in the spring…. Greg regretted not getting in touch sooner. Leo was a nice kid; Greg remembered him as a shy boy with blond hair and blue eyes, smiling and happy. _Leo it is then._ He would wish for a positive resolution to everything that was troubling Leo Lestrade. He sent a brief reply, sympathising with her problems and offering a bit of advice, telling his cousin that he would get back in touch soon and he would love to visit next year. Perhaps they could visit him, and he would show them around London. _Family is family after all_ , he thought. 

**Three days to go…**

“Could I have that pashmina please, the red swirly pattern?” Greg pointed to the scarf on the Christmas market stall, handing over a twenty as the girl looking after the stall wrapped it for him. He would send it to Elise for Christmas, and he would find something appropriate for both Chloe and Leo too. 

Three days to go to full moon and he was still looking for the other recipients of his wishes. Nobody had yet presented him with a definite need. 

“Greg?” Greg turned to see John Watson standing not far away, pushchair in his hands, its handles laden with bags, and a small girl in the pushchair, asleep beneath the plastic rain cover. The man looked happy to see him, grin splitting his face. 

“John, how are you? Christmas shopping I see? How’s things?” He drew the doctor into a hug, which was returned. 

“Fine, fine. Sherlock’s around here somewhere, saw something and dashed off. You know how he is.”

“Too bloody right, he never changes. So, how’s life? I’ve not seen you two in ages. Thought he’d given up helping with cases.”

“Good God, no. Him, give up cases? Hell will freeze over. He’s been devoting his time recently to learning how to parent my daughter.” 

Greg laughed. “I guess trawling every parenting website he can find?”

“ _Every_ parenting website, Greg. There are hundreds. He tries things out on Rosie and formulates the best results. She is his eternal experiment. Although, he’s amazing, really. I’d never have thought he would be any good as a father, but…”

“He’s that good, hm?”

“The best,” John agreed. “At least, Rosie adores him.”

“So, what’s your plan for Christmas?”

“We’ve been invited to visit the hallowed halls of Holmes’ Manor,” John admitted, ruefully.

“Really?”

“Really. Sherlock didn’t even put up a token resistance, either.”

“Oh? Mycroft going?”

“I think so, international emergencies notwithstanding.”

“So, you and Sherlock reached any agreement yet then?”

“How do you mean?”

“You know, John. You in a proper relationship yet?”

John sighed, deflating a little. “Not really. That’s the only blot on the landscape really. I would like to, but...he’s evading. I’ve asked him twice and he’s refused me both times. Says he doesn’t want to _rock the boat_.” 

“Daft sod. He’s dense as a brick.”

“Yeah, well, no shifting him. How about you? Thought you and Mycroft might have been a thing once upon a time.”

“Me and Mycroft? Well, there was a time when I thought he might make some kind of advance but nothing ever materialised there. He’s obviously not interested.”

“That’s not what Sherlock thinks.”

“Then tell him he’s an idiot. Mycroft Holmes is way out of my league, and even if he wasn’t, I don’t think a pleb like me would be of interest to him.”

“Greg, you are not a pleb…”

“Pedestrian, perhaps, but not plebeian.” Sherlock’s smooth baritone reached his ears, and the man himself appeared from between the alpaca wool shawls hanging from the eaves of the stall beside them. “Graham, how are you?”

“Sherlock. Not bad…” Greg didn’t even attempt to correct the man concerning his name. 

“Liar. You are still lonely, single, and still living in that atrocious flat, although it would appear that you have got back in touch with your family given that you are now buying presents.”

“How do you know I'm not purchasing for a lover?”

“Oh, please, that colour? It says you know the recipient, nobody would give that colour to someone you recently met, and the scarf you bought is expensive, too expensive for a recent date, but lightweight enough to post, and your only remaining female relatives are ensconced overseas. You denied you had a woman the last time we met, which was a month ago, so if you had met someone, it would have been less than that time period, assuming you weren't lying, and you wouldn’t know them well enough yet for a gift like that. Ergo, you are communicating with your family again.”

“You are fishing.”

“Deducing, not fishing. Talking of fishing, my parents have the rights to the river at their property. You could join us for Christmas…”

“No, I could not. Sherlock, your mum wouldn’t want me as well…I'm a stranger...”

“Not to my brother.”

“Sherlock!” Greg cried in exasperation. “Mycroft isn’t interested.”

“I beg to differ. He’s interested alright, just rather painfully shy.”

“Sherlock, which planet are you on? Your brother is not shy. He runs the British Government, and he has Priority Ultra clearance, for Gods’ sakes…”

“Priority Ultra clearance does not stop a person being terrified of rejection. However, he will always be stuck in that trap. He cannot risk lowering his defences for long enough to find out.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t wait forever, nor can I find a way through those defences…”

“Where there’s a will…”

Greg looked exasperatedly at Sherlock, then at John. “Take him away, John,” he pleaded, “before I risk my pension…” 

“Come on, Sherlock. Time to go home. Rosie will require feeding soon.”

“Come along then, John. We shall get a taxi home. Take care, Greg. And think about my brother, won’t you? I wasn’t lying. You should get that blue scarf for him…" he pointed above the stall holder's head, "...matches his eyes…"

Greg watched the two men leave. He sighed. A liaison with Mycroft would have been...well, _nice_. The man was attractive, in his own way. Tall, lean, aristocratic, and damn it if Greg didn't have a weakness for all of that. 

Greg sighed and was about to move off through the stalls, when he paused, turned to look back at the blue-grey cashmere scarf that Sherlock had pointed to. Sherlock was correct, it would go with his brother's eyes. _The man’s eyes are…_ his thoughts derailed again. He shook his head, exasperated. _He is powerful, rich, attractive, elegant.._. _Stop torturing yourself_ , Greg thought morosely. _Shy?_ There was no way that Mycroft Bloody Holmes was _shy._ He glanced at the blue scarf again. It had a subtle grey paisley pattern running through it....

"Gimme the blue scarf as well please…and while you're at it, the green shawl too…" _At least that one would do for Sally._

 **Two days to go…**

Greg peered over his desk, surveying the department, watching his officers working on their latest case. 

“Boss?”

“Yes, Sal?”

“Got a minute?”

“Sure, what’s the problem?”

“Marriott, Sir.”

“Who?”

“Marriott. Kev Marriott? DC Marriott?”

“Should he be familiar?”

“Small, dark haired, glasses…”

“Oh, Brummy accent?”

“That’s the one.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Got passed over for promotion again.”

“Again? How many times is that now?”

“Four.”

“What’s the story?”

“No clue. Was hoping you could put some feelers out? Ask a few questions?”

Greg sighed. “I can see, but you know the score. Might not find out anything.”

“Try, sir? Please? He damn well deserves a promotion, sir. He’s done amazingly well last year. He’s passed all his sergeant’s exams, there’s nothing preventing him being promoted, sir. Nothing I can find anyway.”

“Okay, Sal. I’ll ask around. Why does it mean so much to you?”

“He’s a good kid, sir. Reminds me of me. Lost his dad to cancer last year, nobody knew, didn’t bring it to work, he just carried on with things...He’s a good man, Greg.”

“Okay, I’ll do my best, but don't expect much, yeah?"

**0000000**

“He’s okay, but...there was some issue about him not doing well under pressure…”

“Bollocks, Dave,” Greg said, chatting to Dave Bradstreet over a pint that evening. “The kid lost his dad last year to cancer, nobody knew. If that isn’t responding well under pressure, I have no idea what would be. He doesn’t bring his personal shit to work. Unlike others I could name…”

“He’s not a team player though.”

“In what way? He’s never been anything else when he’s worked with me. He’s passed his sergeant’s exams, Dave. Why not promote him?”

“He’s displayed some hot-headedness before.”

“Dave...Now you are taking the piss. What’s the real reason?”

Bradstreet sighed. “I think it’s probably because his great grandfather was right hand man to one of the crime bosses in the East End in the fifties. He’s the granddaughter’s kid, so he doesn’t have the same name, but still, mud sticks.”

“Did he declare the relationship?”

“Yes, far as his records show.”

“So where is the issue? He’s not his great grandad. That's a three generation gap? Come on...”

“As I said, mud sticks…”

_I don’t know him, not really. I’ve think I’ve found my stranger…_

_I know what I want to ask for there, so now, what about me?_

**One day to go…**

_**Good morning, Garry. I am hereby nominated to invite you to Christmas at my parents. Please say yes, it will alleviate the tedium and piss off my big brother. Mummy says it's fine. SH** _

Greg looked at the text in a puzzled fashion, not really understanding how to reply. _What are you_ , he thought, _six?_ It looked like a last minute invite from a small boy to his friend having first consulted mum to make sure it was okay to invite him around. Christmas at the Holmes', with Mycroft in attendance? _Bloody Hell. Now what?_

**Why will your brother be pissed off? GL**

**_Because I asked you? SH_ **

**Because it's YOU, or because you asked ME? GL**

**_Because it was not he who had the courage to ask. SH_ **

**Ah. Okay then. Perhaps I should decline. GL**

**_Don't be an arse. SH_ **

**Coming from you, that's rich. GL**

**_Then don't be pedestrian. SH_ **

Greg was not surprised when a black town car drew up alongside him as he exited Scotland Yard that evening. It was a dark, windy and wet night, and frankly Greg was grateful to slide into the warm interior of the posh vehicle.

"Evening, Mycroft. What can I do for you?"

“More a case of what I can do for you, Inspector. Lift home?”

“Thank you,” Greg said. The car pulled out into the traffic and for a while they rode in silence. Eventually, Mycroft turned to Greg, his expression guarded. "I gather my brother has been... meddling," he said, pointedly.

"In what way?" Greg chose to be obscure. He had a feeling he knew what this would be about but he decided he wanted to hear it from Mycroft. 

"Inviting you to our parents' for Christmas." 

"Ah. That. Well, I wasn't sure if it would be alright. I mean, I wouldn't want to impose…"

"It is quite alright, Chief Inspector," Mycroft said stiffly. "You do not have to accept. Sherlock is merely being difficult."

"And if I wanted to?" Greg wondered what on earth had made him say that. "I mean...I'm not doing anything else. I've no one to be with." Mycroft stared back, expressionless. "I mean...If you don't want me to…" Greg suggested. "What would you like me to do, Mycroft?" _Ball's in your court, Sunshine,_ he thought. _You tell me._

"If you wish to attend...I have no problem with that. I merely wished to make it plain that you should not feel... _obliged_ to accept, just because Sherlock thinks it will throw a proverbial spanner in the works."

"Will it? Throw a spanner in the works? I mean I don't want to make more work for your mum…"

"One extra guest would most certainly not accomplish that. Mummy loves entertaining. Besides, we will not be alone. She always invites at least six of our neighbours for the evening as well.”

"Why might Sherlock think it would cause an upset then?"

Mycroft was silent for a moment, tight lipped, brows drawn up in a slight frown. "Simply my brother being obtuse," he said eventually.

 _And that's a lie if ever I heard one,_ Greg thought, but he held his peace. 

"That's okay," he said instead. "I'm quite comfortable with the invite, actually. You will be there, though, won't you?" 

"I have no idea why that should make a difference."

Greg fixed him with a look. "Will you be there?"

"Yes, barring any crises arising…"

"That's okay then," he said with a smile. "Of course, goes without saying National Security comes first," he added. "Be nice if you were there though. I mean, we don't get to chat about much outside of work as a rule. Always thought you must be an interesting man to talk to…" 

Mycroft blinked and there was a fractional rise of the eyebrows. "If you favour discussing opera and the finer points of polo…" he suggested, with a studied indifference that was fooling nobody.

"I like those," Greg said with a grin. "Polos," he added at Mycroft's confused look. "You know, mints with a hole. Whatever, Mycroft, I'm fine with it, honestly."

"Then on your own head be it," Mycroft said, vaguely exasperated. "If you are determined to come, then I shall send a car for you," he offered, although Greg wasn't sure he would be allowed to refuse even if he'd wanted to. “You will need to be ready early, however. Our parents’ live out of London and it is no short drive to their property."

"How early?" 

"I would suggest you be ready for 7.30am. You might also want to bring an overnight bag. Mummy's parties tend to run quite late."

"Overnight? Your mum won't mind a stranger in her house? Have they got enough room?"

"My parents have plenty of room, Inspector. It won't be a problem. However, if you do reconsider, just let my brother know.”

"Thank you, Mycroft." Greg was definitely determined not to reconsider. Although Mycroft appeared indifferent, _nobody gave you an invite to stay if they hated you, did they?_ The door opened, and Greg realised he'd been swiftly brought to his own front door. "Thanks for the lift," he said, and got out. "See you at Christmas." He watched the car disappear around the corner, wondering what in the world had just transpired.

**D-Day**

On the seventh night before the 21st December—Yule in the old calendar—Greg took the stone from its box and stared at it. Small and innocuous, the little heart-shaped stone sat in his palm, motionless. It didn’t do anything out of the ordinary, it didn’t even glow in the semi dark of his flat. It was a stone, pure and simple. Red striations in a darker ground, it was rough hewn, chipped around the edge, not faceted. It looked like it had not been done with much care, although it also looked like someone had tried to enhance what was already a natural leaning to the shape of a heart. He placed it on his bedside table, and then, for no other reason than it simply struck him as right, he struck a match and lit the candle he had placed in a holder on the bedside table. He turned off the other lights in the room, so that the little candle flame was the only illumination. By its flickering light, he recited the requests he had been formulating in his mind since Mrs G had given him the thing. At least, he thought with his detective’s brain, he thought it had come from her. Why else had it appeared, after all?

“Okay, here goes." His own voice sounded loud in the silence of the room. He modulated it, lowering it to a murmur. "There’s a full moon up tonight, so...whatever Gods of the season are listening…” he paused, feeling a bit daft. “Here goes nothing…” 

If anything, the silence grew more profound, and he rubbed the stone three times over with the thumb of his left hand, as instructed. He spoke clearly, and something in his chest loosened, his thoughts becoming clearer. 

_Ask once for someone related by blood._ “I, Gregory Jonathan Lestrade,” he began, because it seemed right to put his full name to this, “want a positive resolution to everything currently troubling my cousin Elise's son, Leo Lestrade. I want the bullying to stop now, and from this day onward, I wish him to have a happy healthy life, to find who he truly is, and to be content with it.” _One down,_ he thought, _four to go._ The candle flickered in a sudden draft. Greg shut his eyes.

 _Ask once for a stranger._ “Now I'm asking for Detective Constable Kevin Marriott. I don't know him well, but I have worked with him, and in my humble opinion he deserves promotion. So I want him to have everything he needs for a healthy happy life and may his promotion happen when the time is right, unhindered by his ancestry.” _Two down..._

 _Ask once for a friend._ “Also in my opinion, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes need to realise that they both love each other, and to make the leap, so neither of them is lonely anymore. So please would you...would you guide Sherlock toward that, make him see...and take...the opportunity to love John properly.” _Two to go,_ Greg thought.

 _Ask once for someone who needs it._ “For her kindness, Mrs Golightly deserves for her children to remember they've got a mum, and to contact her more often, and come to see her, and to care for her, and to find their love for her again, if they’ve lost it.” _Nearly there,_ Greg considered, finally ready to voice his own wish. 

_Ask once for yourself._ “Finally, I would like a chance at a relationship with Mycroft Holmes, a mutually satisfying, loving relationship. May I be guided to find a way through his defences to show him that he deserves love and care and affection in the hope he’ll show me love and care and affection in return.” _Well, it's done_. He placed the stone beneath his pillow, blew out the candle, and settled for sleep. Seven nights, it had to stay there for an entire week, and Greg fell asleep wondering what in the world he had let himself in for…


	2. Works Like a Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas gets closer...  
> The results are in...

The next week passed slowly as the usual rash of serious crime took a surprising nosedive. Those who commented on how quiet it was were shouted down for jinxing the peace, but nothing changed. Despite the superstitious fear that it would all come crashing down and their usual busy season of people being downright vicious to each other was just around the corner, Yule came around, the shortest day, with no appreciable difference in their caseloads. Greg was off work, and took the opportunity to sleep in. He lifted the pillow and looked at the little stone. It was just the same. He left it there, superstitiously unsure as to whether he should remove it yet. It had been there the full week, and he had slept remarkably well considering there was a rock under his pillow, albeit a small one. _The Princess and the Pea,_ he thought, remembering a fairy tale from his childhood. Perhaps it proved once and for all that he wasn't of royal blood, because he hadn't felt it. Smiling to himself for the absurdity, he rose and went for a shower, with the intent to go out for some last minute Christmas shopping. 

Finding himself on the High Street a half hour later, looking for ideas for a present for Leo in the window of a sports shop, Greg found his thoughts drifting back to the stone. _Can't seriously expect this to work_ … _Miracle on Islington High Street? Doesn't really have the right ring to it..._

His phone pinged with an email as he was heading home, and he saw it was from Elise. He was shocked at her first words. Leo had been hauled into the headmaster's office for fighting. _Bugger, that was not how it was supposed to go…_

"Knew it wouldn't work..." he muttered, disappointed. However, reading on, her tale then took a different turn.

 _I went to the school,_ she wrote, _and saw the headmaster, and I demanded to know what was going on._ Apparently, Leo had fought one of the bullies and won. _This is a hate crime, I told him,_ she wrote, _because my son is gay. This is the 21st century, and it is not a crime to be gay. I demanded he do something to stop this, or I told him I would go to the Prosecutor's Office…_

Greg read on, about how Elise had learned that Leo's teacher had done nothing to help, but when she had complained to the Headmaster he had reassured her that something would be done. According to Elise, the headmaster had agreed to look into it all, the bullies had been suspended from school, and Leo's teacher was facing enquiry. The outcome looked positive at least. Leo was happier, and his friends were supporting him, and once people had found out what was happening with Leo, others had come forward to complain about the bullies as well. 

Well, one down, at least. He sent a quick reply to say how thankful he was that things were okay, and that he would call her soon, but if she needed him, he would be there for her. Relieved, he continued on his way home.

**T minus four**

The following evening, Greg decided to go out for a drink. Everywhere on the High Street was festive and bustling, lots folk were out last-minute shopping, there were winking lights from shop windows, strings of fairy lights across the roads, and a general sense of happiness. Greg wove through the street market that had set up near his flat, with stalls selling everything from crepes to hand crafted jewellery. Passing between the chalets, the scents of spices and mulled wine filled his nose. He stopped into his local for a pint, and spent some time nattering with Geoff, the landlord. His phone pinged with yet another text as he was returning from the loo.

**Call me. JW**

"What's up, mate?" Greg asked. John had picked up very quickly. 

"I need a best man," John said in a rush. It took a second or two for Greg to process what the doctor had just said.

"What? Why?"

"Jesus, Greg, call yourself a detective?'

"You mean you...and him…? Christ. When did he ask? Did he, or was it you? Please tell me this isn't just for a case."

John laughed. "No, it isn't, and it's all him. Just went down on one knee about an hour ago, said he'd been stupid not to see it, how it would enhance what we have, not ruin it, only he said he'd needed time to process it."

"What happened to not wanting to rock the boat?"

"No clue. I guess I just needed to let him come to it in his own time. He's brilliant but also remarkably dense on some things. So...need a best man. You up for that?"

"Jesus, John, of course I am. It would be an honour, mate. You decided on a date or is it a bit early?"

"Nothing fixed, but we were talking May time. Apparently himself would like it to be when he can hear the bees buzzing in the blossom."

"Romantic at heart, isn't he?"

"Probably not. Just obsessed with bees. He'll be off experimenting with them soon as the ceremony's over, I should think. Anyway, how are you? I understand Big Brother called on you the other night." 

"Yes. He did. Seemed a bit...I dunno, distant."

"That's his default, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess. Could have been a bit more enthusiastic though."

"This _is_ Mycroft we're talking about."

"Yeah, yeah, alright. Maybe I am expecting too much."

"Didn't try to put you off then?"

"Of course he did. Said Sherlock was being a dick...well, not quite like that but...you know Mycroft. Anyway, he gave me an out but I didn’t take it, so…he's sending a car to pick me up."

"Really? That's...interesting. So, we'll see you for Christmas then?"

"Apparently so."

"Think it's partly why Sherlock proposed, so we are officially allowed to share a bed."

"Well, congratulations, John. Really pleased for you…"

"Thanks. Oops, better go, he's coming back…"

 _Two down?_ Greg wondered. He was still reluctant to believe in the magic, or at least, part of him was. He wanted to. He really, really wanted to, but it was too fantastical, too divergent from the practicalities of his everyday existence to fit in anywhere. Still, it was nice to know there was something positive out there for people.

**T minus three**

"Boss?" 

"Yeah, Sal, what's up?"

"Sorry to pull you in so early, but there's been a double murder in Soho. It's a locked room again. One guy upstairs, the other down…"

Greg sighed. Seemed like their quiet run up to Christmas had ended. "Okay, gimme the address…" He levered himself out of bed, reaching to hit the light on his clock. 4.50am. _Fuckitty fucking fuck. No lying in this morning._

They surveyed the scene glumly. "Of course, this probably means we'll be working over Christmas…"

"Actually, this isn't that complicated," Phil said, causing both Greg and Sally to stare at him in surprise. "Seriously. I'm sure of it. Time of death differs, so the guy in the locked room died last. I think he did it…then committed suicide."

"Okay, _Sherlock_ , prove it," Greg challenged. Phil grinned and set to work.

"Sir?" Greg turned to see a young man howevering by his elbow, glasses on his nose, brown eyes looking a bit wary.

"Yes, Constable…?"

"Um...Sergeant actually, sir. Just been confirmed."

"Congratulations, Sergeant…?"

"Marriott, sir. Kevin Marriott. I'll be transferring to Manchester after Christmas, sir. I just wanted to thank you. DI Bradstreet said you'd put in a word."

Greg smiled. "Hardly a word, but...glad you're on your way up the ladder." 

The young man stuck out a hand to shake and Greg obliged. “Thank you again, sir. Hope I do you proud.”

“Take care that you do.” Greg smiled and watched the young man go with bemused surprise. _Three down, two to go..._

**T minus two**

"Inspector, there you are."

"Mrs Golightly, how are you?" Greg had just put his key in the lock when his neighbour opened her door. At least he was home relatively early. Nothing had indicated to Phil Anderson that they were looking for any other assailants and it was proving to be a routine investigation as a result. They'd covered a lot of ground yesterday, and the case was shaping up quickly. Hoping for a quick outcome to the case, he had sent his team home.

"Actually very well, thank you, dear. I just wanted to let you know, I'm not going to be here for Christmas, and I wondered would you mind keeping an eye on my flat? My daughter called from Newcastle. I'm going to stay with them and we'll even be skyping the rest of the family in Australia, won't that be nice? Now, dear, I'll be back in the new year, but I'm also thinking of moving to be closer to them next year. Andrea is researching Sheltered Housing in the area for me. That won't be quite yet, but I wanted you to be the first to know."

"I'm really pleased, Mrs G. That's such good news."

"Home is where the _heart_ is, after all," the lady said, knowingly. 

“True enough. Look, it’s only fair to tell you I'm going to be away too, visiting friends. However, I'll make sure the place is secure, I'll see if the local police can keep an eye on the place while we're gone."

"Oh, that's kind of you. You know, Inspector, you remind me a lot of my late husband. He was kind and gentle, like you. I do hope you have a wonderful time."

"Thank you too, Mrs G. I really hope you do as well."

**T minus one**

_Bloody Hell… four down, one left_. Himself. He sat at his kitchen table, uninspiring microwave meal in front of him, wondering. Perhaps it was all just coincidence. _The universe is rarely so lazy_ …He could hear mycroft's voice in his head. _Now I am going daft._ He glanced at the clock. Well, Christmas Eve was almost over. Not much time left…he would need to get packing his overnight bag and hit the sack early. He would have to be up at six, latest. The car would be there for him at seven. 

His doorbell rang just before eleven. Greg had been about to drag himself to bed. He was already in his dressing gown, padding about in bare feet.

"Who is it?" he called, peering through the peephole, seeing a three piece suit and neat pocket square on the other side. _Mycroft_? He looked a bit _off_ , as he stood there on Greg's doorstep. Greg fumbled the latch, opening the door. 

"Mycroft. What's wrong, mate?" If Mycroft looked surprised to be referred to as _'mate'_ he said nothing, just ducked his head a little uncertainly and refused to meet Greg's eyes.

"Gregory…" Mycroft said softly, "may I...may I come in? I saw your light on…"

 _Gregory?_ "Course. What's the matter?" 

"I'm not even sure I should be here. You're...obviously ready to go to bed..."

"Come on in, it's cold out there." Greg guided the man inside, shivering a little in the cold draft he brought with him, then set about helping him off with his coat. "What can I get you?" He asked, smoothing his hands over the heavy cashmere. The coat was warm, faintly redolent of Mycroft's aftershave. "Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?"

"Are you sure. I'm keeping you from your rest."

"Oh, don't worry about that. If it's a long journey, I can sleep in the car tomorrow. So, what'll it be?"

"Do you have whisky?"

"Yes. Are you alright, Mycroft?”

“I am...not terribly sure. A curious thing, really. I was at my club, working, and...something happened...” 

“What sort of something?” Greg was immediately on the alert, but Mycroft waved a vague hand and shook his head.

“Oh, nothing physical. I have not been assaulted, or robbed, nothing that would require a police presence, anyway.”

“So why have you come to me?”

“Because I cannot relate this to my brother, and I sent Anthea home for Christmas hours ago. I...honestly, I do not know why I am here, except that I felt... _compelled_ to come. I wracked my brain to think of someone else to whom I could....explain, but no one else came to mind. Every time I tried to redirect my reasoning, my thoughts brought me inexorably back to you." Affront at his own brain's rebellion warred with curiosity. 

“Okay, so...talk to me. I’m listening.”

“That is one thing you do very well, Inspector.” Mycroft averted his eyes again and looked at the floor.

 _Okay, back to Inspector again._ “Kind of comes with the job." Greg headed to his drinks cabinet intent on breaking out the good stuff. Well, as good as it got in his sad little drinks cabinet. He did have one good whisky though. He handed a glass to Mycroft who took it with a slight tremor. That wasn’t good. Greg seated himself a little to one side in a non-threatening position. “So, what happened?”

“I just learned this morning that an old friend died a few days ago...”

“Oh. That’s not good news to get so close to Christmas.”

“Quite. His son sent me a letter. Alex and I were...close, back in the day.”

“Close as in…”

“Close. _Very_ close.” It was odd to think of Mycroft having an ex. _Perhaps there was more than one…_

“That’s sad.” 

“He was younger than me by a few years. Finding out like that...it quite turned my thoughts elsewhere. After a while I just couldn’t concentrate.”

“Why come to me? No other friends you could talk to?”

“Alas, I do not have _friends_. Peers. Acquaintances, perhaps.. Colleagues. This is...a little more delicate than I wish to discuss with them. Besides, I trust you," he admitted, incredulous at his own revelation.

Greg smiled ruefully. "Better do my best to keep that trust, then," he said.

Mycroft just looked at him, troubled. "Alex was someone I never outright declared.”

“Declared? Sorry, I don't…"

“In my line of work, it is considered prudent that every liaison—past and present—be declared, vetted, and listed, in case problems should arise in the future.”

“Jesus, Myc. That's a big invasion of privacy...but I guess it’s only like a more intense version of what we have to do; declare any business ventures, contact with known criminals, conflicts of interest, that kind of thing.” Tight lipped, Mycroft nodded. “So...this Alex that you never declared? Would you mind me asking why didn't you?”

“Alex was...a very quiet person, a wonderful man, very kind, funny, gentle…” Mycroft’s eyes unfocused and his expression took on the look of someone lost in a memory. “He was somewhat modest and even shy about his own talents. He would not have welcomed the intrusive nature of our vetting process.” Mycroft cleared his throat and threw back another swallow of his whisky. “Also...my superiors would not have approved our liaison."

"Why on earth not?'

"Alex was Russian.”

“Ah. I can see how that might be _...very_ delicate.”

“Quite,” Mycroft said again.

“But you trusted him?”

“Of course. He was discretion itself. He never once used our connection. He was an academic, a lecturer in Art History at Moscow University, about as far from subversive as one could get.”

“How long were you together?”

“Less than a year. After his sabbatical ended, he returned to his home, and his wife, and I never heard from him again.”

“Ouch. How did that make you feel?” Mycroft shot him a look that said it all. 

“I was...I suppose it was safe to say I was devastated. Sherlock deduced there was something wrong, but he never found out. He had never met Alex. I did not take him home.” 

“Was Alex okay when he went back? Russia doesn’t exactly fly the rainbow flag after all.”

“Exactly. I worried for along time. Alex was really Alexi Gerasim Chernov, and despite it being in the Gorbachev era of _perestroika_ and _glasnost_ , there was still no way we could have continued the charade, and we both knew it. I kept it extremely quiet…for obvious reasons. He sent very brief messages via a mutual friend from Oxford when his sons were born. I passed it off as an acquaintance I made at Oxford while studying my PhD. It was true, after all. It hurt not to be able to acknowledge our relationship, to know it couldn't become permanent, but I would never have risked either of our careers, or his marriage. It wasn't as if I hadn't known about his wife. Alex was honest with me from the start. Dimitri is now a doctor and Arkady is a computer engineer, both fine men and useful members of Russian society. It was Arkady sent the letter. Apparently he posted it here while he was visiting with his uncle in Holland Park.”

“A well-off family then.”

“Most certainly. Alex’s brother was always the entrepreneur. Alex suspected that some of his brother Mikhail’s business interests were not always legal, another reason I dared not declare him.”

"Mycroft…"

"What?"

"You're taking a huge leap of faith here, that's what. Trusting me with this. It's a career breaker, Myc. If it got out…"

Mycroft shrugged. “Needs must, I'm afraid. I admit I am a little off-kilter. His death has affected me far more than I could have anticipated."

"Yeah, well… Being unable to speak about it would have been so much worse though."

"So I am given to understand." Mycroft's words sounded as though they had been dragged up from his shoes. “His son’s message was simple and straightforward, but he had included a short letter his father had written to me. Alexi had always wanted me to know something, and Arkady was charged with passing it along.”

“Bit dangerous, sending it like that.”

“A letter from Russia to me would potentially have been intercepted in the official channels, but he was discreet in posting it here. He asked a friend to do it, someone who would draw no attention. Besides, he is a computer engineer. He is an intelligent man.” Mycroft looked away for a moment. “The letter was apparently written when his father became ill last year. Alexi knew he would not survive, and decided to put pen to paper with the express instruction I be contacted after his death.” 

“What did he say?”

“He made reference to his regret that our relationship had not had a chance, that he had not defected when the opportunity arose, and that he was living a lie. He was...sad, and if what he said is to be believed, he remained so for the rest of his life. He resigned himself to being the dutiful husband and never took another male lover, nor did he ever return to Britain. He signed the letter _rodstvennaya dusha. Soulmate._ ” Mycroft fell quiet. 

“That’s...sad, Myc, but it's lovely too. You had something I never did. I’ve never been anybody’s soulmate.” Mycroft looked at him strangely. “I cannot imagine what he felt. Nice that he should let you know though.”

“After reading his letter,” Mycroft added, “I was somewhat startled to find myself immured in thoughts of what might have been. I am, I have to admit, a little...upset by the fact that I was not there for him during what must have been a very difficult time. Arkady wrote that his father had a hard time in the last few months of his life." 

“That’s also very human,” Greg said, "to feel that way. Regret is common, but I know from experience that it's a bit of a waste of time. You can spend so much time on regrets, you forget to enjoy the now. Whatever you did or did not do, it’s what you do from now on that makes a difference. You can’t change what happened in the past, but you can perhaps learn from it.”

“Wise words from a compassionate man, Gregory.” 

“I'm a realist, with perhaps overtones of optimism, and I like a little romance.” he chuckled. “Sherlock hates sentiment. He would rather walk over hot coals...what?” Because Mycroft had frowned rather sharply. “What’s wrong?”

“I think even my brother has managed to locate his heart, when all is said and done.”

“Perhaps he has. Certainly seems to be enamoured of little Rosie.”

“And now it seems also her father.” Greg smiled at Mycroft's comment, but he saw the rather wistful look in the man's eyes. 

“You miss him?” he asked, gently.

“Alexi? It is so long ago, around about thirty years, I am afraid I cannot remember what he was really like, apart from the fact that we fit together like two jigsaw pieces. We had the same thoughts, the same likes, same dislikes, the same sense of humour. He was kind, and he was also...my first…” Mycroft admitted this with a slight blush and wouldn’t meet Greg’s eyes.

“That’s really a sweet memory though, isn’t it?”`

“I...I never really considered…”

“Was it good with him?”

“Yes, yes it was. He was my benchmark for all subsequent relationships, although there have been precious few of those.”

“Then it was a sweet memory, which is really nice. A good way to remember him, even if he is gone.” Greg held out the bottle. “Top up?”

“Thank you.” The amber liquid splashed into the crystal tumbler, catching the lighĺt as it did so. “This is a very good vintage. One might almost say it looks like molten gold,” Mycroft said, appreciatively, holding the tumbler up to the light and admiring the liquid within.

“That’s lyrical, coming from you.”

“I am not a complete Philistine,” Mycroft said, waspishly.

“Never said you were. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to sound like that. It's just....l don't know you well enough to comment really. I'll shut up."

Mycroft fixed him with a look. Then he sighed. "No, you are correct. It is not the sort of comment you would expect from me. I'm not exactly known for my rhapsodic expression."

Greg smiled and patted a pinstriped shoulder. "Perhaps you should start. Being expressive, rhapsodic, lyrical… Look, mate, life is too short to waste on regrets and missed opportunities. It’s not healthy.”

“So I have been told.”

"So what are you going to do about it?"

Mycroft looked a bit lost. "I have no idea," he admitted.

"Well, you can mire yourself in self pity, cut yourself off and bury it all, or…"

"Or?"

Greg smiled. "Live a little," he said. "You know, get out there, put yourself about a bit, find someone. We're not meant to live in a vacuum, Mycroft."

"I...no, I do not think I could. I am not sociable, beyond the demands of my position. I could not subject anyone to the level of scrutiny demanded of those who get close to me. It is not fair…"

"And what if that someone didn't mind?" Greg suggested.

"Highly unlikely. Besides, the demands of my job...I'm sure you understand."

"Perfectly, Mycroft. You are preaching to the converted there."

"Any partner of mine would need to be able to keep up with me, intellectually speaking."

"Of course. Goes without saying."

"They would need to be able to play the genial host at a moment's notice…"

"Found myself doing that once, ended up discussing Arsenal's chances against West Ham with the Chief Commissioner of all people… and the MP for Woking, I think he was..."

"I work late, and I don't require more than around four hours of sleep per night. It can put a strain on a relationship when one partner is not there in the night ..."

"Mm, I'm finding I need less sleep as I get older too. I don't miss sleeping with someone, but I do miss the company. It's good to work in someone else’s vicinity…"

"And of course, there is the gauntlet to run that is my parents…"

"Gonna meet them later, aren't I?"

"Yes...yes, you are… Gregory…"

"Yeah?" 

"Are you...saying what I think you are saying?" 

Greg only grinned. "It's late, Mycroft," he said with a smile. "Get gone. I'll see you tomorrow ..." 


	3. Christmas day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy's for Christmas....

Greg was awake, showered, shaved and dressed well before the car was due to take him to the Holmes' house. He had been up since 5.30, and had made himself coffee and toast, taking it back to bed with him. He read the news on his phone for a while, simply enjoying the peace and quiet. At around 6, there had been the sound of thumps from upstairs. Sue and Dave's kids had obviously woken up early. The peace disturbed, he got out of bed and wandered unhurriedly into his bathroom. He shaved carefully, going over his skin twice, using the high-end aftershave and cologne that he had treated himself to last year. It was a celebration of being a free man again, although he hadn't had much call to use it. 

He chose a crisp white shirt and a dark red silk tie, a soft claret-coloured jumper, and dark navy chinos. Smart casual, he figured, assessing himself in the mirror. He grinned to himself; red, white and blue. Mycroft might approve of his patriotic colour choices. He didn't want to go too formal, but…. 

He paused, eyeing his posh 'weddings only' suit hanging in the wardrobe. It was Harris Tweed three piece, in a gorgeous dark marine blue, and he figured if tonight was a posh do, he didn't want to look like the poor relation. He evicted a lesser quality offering from his one and only suit carrier and bagged the Tweed before he could change his mind. He also grabbed shoes to match and a dark blue silk tie that he quickly stuffed in his overnight bag. It was a bit of a sea change, even for him. He wasn't used to acting the clothes horse. More often looked like the suit was trying to wear him. He rarely paid attention to his appearance, and when he did, it wasn't much beyond a trim at the barbers. Tonight, though, tonight was a bit special. Mycroft would be there and that was reason enough to take a little more care with his appearance.

The car appeared on the dot of seven, just as the pips on the radio told him the 7am news was about to start. He switched off the radio, made sure every light was off bar the ones he'd left on a timer, and went to open the door. A young man in a chauffeur’s uniform was standing in the hallway, hat tucked under his arm and a hopeful smile in place. 

“Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade?"

"That's me," Greg confirmed.

"Merry Christmas, Sir,” he said. "My name is Jeremy, Mr Holmes’ driver. May I take your bags?” 

“Merry Christmas to you too, Jeremy, and yes, by all means. There’s just these,” he said, indicating his overnight and the suit bag lying against it. “I’ll be down in a mo. Need to grab my overcoat and a bag I left in the kitchen…” 

“Very well, sir, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Greg checked the contents of the bag on the countertop, just to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, and then he hurried after the driver, locked up behind him and gave a final check of Mrs Golightly’s door before he left. Outside it was still dark and quiet, and not many people were moving yet. There were one or two lights on, but Christmas morning was mostly devoid of traffic, apart from those intrepid souls who were off to visit friends and relatives for Christmas dinner. It was cold too, and Greg was glad to get into the warmth of the car. 

Sherlock and John were already inside, sitting close together. Rosie was snug in her carseat next to them, swaddled in a fleece with snowmen on it. Mycroft was sitting opposite, looking rather stiff and strained. 

“Morning, fellas,” Greg said, cheerily, doing his best to be cheerful and sliding in next to Mycroft. He bumped shoulders gently with the man, but the look he got wasn't heartening.

“Morning, Greg,” John replied, grinning.

“Good morning, Gordon,” Sherlock said, upholding the tradition of getting his name wrong. “Happy Christmas.” Beside him, Rosie giggled and gurgled. 

“Happy Christmas to you too, and you, darlin’. Look at you, all growing up. Ready for all those pressies?”

“She’ll be spoiled,” Mycroft said, tartly.

“She’s two,” John said, “of course she’ll be spoiled. She’s meant to be at this age.”

“Doubtless Mummy will adore her,” Mycroft murmured. 

“Jealous, Mycroft?” Sherlock said, mildly. 

“Of a two year old child? Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock.”

“Well, you haven't exactly been the subject of Mummy's affection lately, have you?”

“Sherlock…" Mycroft's voice held a note of warning.

“Come on, you two," Greg said, placating. "You could bicker for England. Leave it out, today of all days."

“Au contraire, Inspector,” Sherlock said, grinning. “Mycroft's sour demeanour is the result of slight dispepsia…”

Mycroft sighed, and swallowed, eyes cutting to the window. Greg looked him over critically. “You okay?” he asked.

“I shall be fine, Gregory, thank you. The day does not agree with me…”

“More like Mummy doesn’t agree with you.”

“Oh, Sherlock…” Mycroft sighed, exasperated.

“Mummy is not the most forgiving of women,” Sherlock said. “After Eurus wrecked her havoc, Mycroft is not particularly in our parents’ favour.”

“So why are you going to Christmas dinner?” Greg asked.

“Because they are my parents. Family is important, apparently."

They travelled the rest of the way in relative silence. Greg kept casting glances at Mycroft but stayed quiet, dozing for part of the way. He was still tired, especially as Mycroft had left rather late last night. When he finally roused sufficiently to see that the sun had properly risen, they were driving through country lanes and there was a glow to the frosted countryside. It hadn’t snowed but if anything the frost made everything more beautiful, glittering on every leaf and branch and blade of grass. Mycroft was sitting with his eyes closed, a slightly pained expression on his face. Sherlock and John were conversing in low tones, and Rosie was asleep, lulled by the motion of the car. 

“We nearly there yet?” Greg asked, with a grin.

“Very nearly,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. 

“Looks cold out there,” Greg observed. “Pretty though.”

“If you like freezing weather,” Mycroft said. 

“Well, you should feel quite at home… _Antarctica_ ," Sherlock murmured. 

Moments later, the car turned into a short driveway, wheels crunching on the gravel. It rolled to a halt in front of a red farmhouse surrounded by trees and neatly kept gardens.

“We’re here.” Mycroft did not sound very enthusiastic. Sherlock almost leapt out of the car and John followed, at pains to lift the sleeping child carefully into his arms. Greg hung back, and glanced at Mycroft.

“Are you really okay with this?”

“As much as I ever am,” Mycroft admitted.

"Your parents giving you a hard time?”

“Somewhat."

"You didn't have to come, you know. Why didn't you refuse?"

"Well...you agreed to come. I thought…" Mycroft fell silent and wouldn't look his way.

"What did you think, Mycroft?"

"After last night…that we might…that there may have been an opportunity to…" he shrugged, defensive and a little awkward.

Greg smiled, a wide warm grin. "Plenty of opportunity to get to know each other?" he said. "Maybe even have a bit of fun?"

"I'm not sure how, Gregory. Fun is not a signature of my life."

"Take my lead," Greg said, all innocence. "You don't fancy a little... _charade_ , do you?"

**0000000**

"There you are, boys. I honestly thought you'd got lost. Ah, look at this little darling. How are you, John? I hear congratulations are in order…" 

Greg watched as Mummy Holmes hovered and fussed over Rosie and John and Sherlock. He was more concerned about Mycroft, who was currently occupied leaning on him for support. He had a horrible feeling that he was only partly dissembling. Greg waited as Mrs Holmes cut eyes toward them, then murmured in Mycroft's ear. "Ready for your entrance, Lady Bracknell?" 

"I think so…" 

"Aaand...action!"

**0000000**

"Thank you, my dear, but I assure you, I will be quite alright…" Mycroft patted Greg on the arm that was currently tucked under his as they traversed the gravel.

"Can't be too careful, love. You work too hard." Greg smiled, softly. "You want a kip before festivities get under way?"

"Perhaps a rest would be in order...oh, Mummy," Mycroft said, feigning having only just realised she was there. "Do allow me to introduce you to Gregory…"

"Detective Chief Inspector Greg Lestrade, Ma'am," Greg said, turning on the formality. "So good to finally meet you." He smiled a winning smile, took the lady's hand, and shook it gently. "Easy to see where Myc gets his good looks from." He heard a distinct “ _Oh, please,_ ” from Sherlock but ignored him. 

_Bingo_. She smiled at him, slightly unsure of her ground, then shifted her attention to her son. "Mycroft, what have you done now?"

"Working too hard again," Greg supplied, looking fondly at him. "Seriously, Love, it's Christmas. You'd think the PM would let you off the hook at this time of year." 

"As well you know, Gregory, it was essential I sit in on the COBRA meetings. Heaven knows, the UK is a powder keg at the moment. One wrong move…"

"You must be very proud of your lad, Mrs Holmes. Mycroft works really too hard. Hardly seen him all week…"

"I did apologise…"

"I know you did, love." Greg squeezed him in a hug. "God knows, I'm not one to throw stones in glass houses." 

The smile Greg gave him melted his heart. For a moment, Mycroft wondered what it would be like to be in a real relationship with the man, how it would destroy him utterly if it were to fail. _Best not to start one_ , he considered. Although, this was nice, despite it being an act. He missed being cared about. 

Greg was talking again, exchanging words with his mother, and Mycroft dragged his attention back with difficulty. Greg was guiding him into the house, greeting his father, warmth exuding from him.

"...not been together long…" Greg was saying. "We've been keeping it low key, for Myc's sake. He's concerned about safety…" 

"Mycroft didn't say a word. When were you going to tell me you had a partner, Mycroft?" She said frostily.

"Sorry about that," Greg said, neatly deflecting any blame. "Seriously, it was all me. I felt it was too...new. besides, we really didn't want to steal Sherlock's thunder. It's great news, isn't it? Them tying the knot."

"Yes, it is. Archie and I are delighted."

"I'm sure you are. So...anyway, yes, there you are. It was just...Mycroft told me how proud he was of this, of us, only last night as it happens. So what could I say? Of course I relented. Mycroft and I are giving it a go. So now you know."

"Yes, well, given the timing...I suppose it can't be helped." Mummy was mollified. _Goal unlocked_ , Greg thought.

"Now, love. I think you'd feel better if you had a nap…" Greg said, his tone gentle.

"I will be fine, Gregory…"

"Nonsense, Mycroft," his mother said. "Listen to your partner. Take him upstairs, Greg. Your rooms are next to each other…Anyway, so nice to make your acquaintance, Chief Inspector…" 

"Greg, please, Mrs. Holmes."

"Greg. Please call me Erica. Welcome to our home, and a merry Christmas to you. We'll see you boys later then. Jeremy has already taken your bags upstairs."

"Thank you, Erica. Come on, love, let's get you upstairs…"

"Do stop fussing, Gregory. I told you, I will be fine…" 

Upstairs on the landing, out of earshot of their parents, Sherlock was leaning on the bannister rail, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Don't you start, Sunshine, or I will deck you," Greg said firmly.

"I'd like to see you try. You might think this is a charade, Greg, but I think you'll find others do not.…"

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but Greg beat him to it. "Whether it is or not, Sherlock, it's still none of your business. Which is your room, Mycroft?"

Mycroft tugged him toward a door to their right, and opened it onto a neat, tidy, and also quite light, room. A large east-facing window let in copious amounts of sunshine, but it was bracketed by heavy velvet curtains which would nicely mitigate the glare in a morning. It was a largish space, two walls lined with bookshelves. A desk sat in the bay of the window, and a matching wardrobe, chest of drawers and a dressing table were strategically placed on the wall that had no shelves. There were fresh flowers in a vase on the desk.

"Nice," Greg said. He could easily picture a teenage Mycroft at the desk, studying. 

"A pleasant room, I agree. " Mycroft sat down on the bed with a soft groan. 

"Look...I'll leave you in peace…" Greg said but Mycroft raised a wan hand.

"Please," he said, "don't leave on my account."

"You sure? I mean...you do look like you should get some rest. Here…" Greg knelt and unfastened Mycroft's shoes, feeling unaccountably intimate seeing those long feet in their silk socks.

“I can rest in your company, although it is appalling manners…”

“Nonsense, I don’t mind. So...you think she bought it?”

“Perhaps. Probably thinks I’m stealing Sherlock’s thunder, despite what you told her.” 

“Pfft.” Greg made a dismissive sound. “Surely she can think what she likes, it won’t change the situation.”

“I appreciate your efforts to deflect her attention. I am not sure it will work though.”

“We can try, love.” 

“Gregory, there is nobody else here. You do not need to call me that.”

“What?”

“You called me _love_.”

“Did I? Oh...sorry. Habit, I guess. Do you not like it?”

“No...I...actually…” There was a knock at the door. “Damn it all...Yes, who is it?”

“Just me,” John said, poking his head in. “Sherlock and I are heading for a walk. Don’t suppose you want to join us, but I thought it polite to ask.”

“No, John, thanks," Greg said. "Myc needs a rest and I’m knackered. Think I’ll be getting a bit of kip too.” 

John nodded and bowed out. “Fair enough. See you later.”

Greg looked at Mycroft. “Look, I’ll let you rest,” he said. "Let me go sort my stuff and I'll come back in a few." He went to find his own room. _Right now, things have definitely got the potential to get out of hand_ , he thought, chagrinned. _If only…_ He doubted Mycroft would want to start anything, especially under his parent’s roof, _but a man can hope_. It was the last thing he'd asked for, after all. He slipped a hand into his pocket. The little heart-shaped stone felt reassuring under his fingers. 

_Come on_ , he thought, _one last little bit of Christmas magic. Please don't let this be all there is._ That would just be too cruel, giving him a brief taste of what might have been and no more. He slipped it under his pillow. 

_Don't fail me now…_


	4. Bearing Your Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the fluff ensue...

Greg jumped awake, fully clothed, on a strange bed. It took him a moment to work out where he was. Then it all came back. Mycroft's parents' place, for Christmas. He glanced blearily at the clock. 10.33am. _Bloody Hell. Now what?_ He got up and peered out of his door. There were voices from downstairs, sounded like Mycroft and his mum. He slipped his shoes back on, found his comb and pulled it through his sleep disheveled hair, then headed out of the safety of the guest room.

Greg paused at the head of the stairs, listening to the quiet sounds of a family Christmas. Somewhere there were carols playing softly. The smell of warm cinnamon reached his nose. Decorations were everywhere; bauble debecked garlands on the stairs, holly on the tops of all the pictures on the walls, a small tree on a side table in the hall, another bigger tree in the living room. Even the kitchen was suitably adorned with greenery. The fact was, Greg loved it. He and his wife had never bothered over much with decorating, despite Greg's love of such things. She hadn't wanted to waste either the time or money on it. Mr and Mrs Holmes obviously had no such concerns.

He walked in the kitchen to find Mycroft looking a bit unwell. Greg paused. He had instigated the little charade to challenge Mycroft's mother's incessant displeasure, but the not-quite-fake relationship was perhaps not the best of ideas. He realised he didn't want it to be fake in any way. He wanted Mycroft; all of Mycroft, from those bespoke suits, to the slight air of mystery, the posh manners, the auburn hair, those stormy eyes... _Christ, I've got it bad_ , he thought, wondering what his next move should be. 

**0000000**

Mycroft was reluctant to descend the stairs alone, not knowing what he would find. He had dozed for a while, then lay staring at the ceiling thinking how he much a foreigner he was in his own family home. Mummy and father were still cool toward him. He was tolerated, rather than embraced, and he wondered why he was even there. Gregory did not return, and Mycroft wondered if he was having second thoughts. _Gregory_ , his mind supplied. Gregory was the only reason he hadn't simply got back in the car and fled. Gregory was the only reason he had endured his mother's attitude. _If Gregory was having second thoughts…_.

**0000000**

"There you are, Mikey. Are you feeling any better?" 

"Somewhat. Thank you, Mummy." He decided not to fight her over calling him by a shortened and somewhat twee version of his name. _Mycroft_ was a serious nomenclature, with a gravitas attached that suited his profession, his age, and his world view. _Mikey_ was the child trapped in a well that Lassie tried to rescue. _Trapped down a well…_ He shuddered at the thought. That little scenario made him feel ill again. 

"Well, you don't look any better. Where's that man of yours, hm?" _He should be here, caring for you,_ her tone implied, _so I don't have to_. 

"I'm here," Greg said, coming in from the hallway. Mycroft took a moment to revel in Gregory's perfect timing. He crossed immediately to where Mycroft was seated and dropped a kiss on the top of his head.

Greg found kissing Mycroft remarkably easy to do. He snaked an arm around his not-quite-boyfriend's shoulders and squeezed. "You not feeling any better, love?"

"I shall be fine…"

"Might ask John to take a look at you. You might be coming down with something."

"If you wish, but I don't really want to bother him…"

"Bother him with what?" John said, stamping into through the door. Sherlock followed on his heels, shedding his coat.

"How is Rosie?" Sherlock demanded to know.

"Fine, dear. Don't fuss," his mother said. "She's still asleep." 

"So what were you not going to bother me with?" John asked, looking from Mycroft to Greg and back. 

"Mycroft's feeling a bit out of sorts. Could you give him a quick check up?" Greg asked.

"Sure. Let me get out of this stuff. Perhaps...upstairs?" 

"Sure. Come on, let's get you upstairs, love."

"Gregory, I am quite capable of walking upstairs on my own…" Mycroft eyed the look in his not-partner's eyes and relented. Greg really seemed to be worried. In point of fact, it did not seem to be an act. Mycroft sighed, and went along with the charade.

"Now she thinks I'm weak as well as stupid."

Greg regarded him as they climbed the stairs. "Mycroft, who cares? You’re not well. What happened back there? What did she say to you?"

"Nothing overmuch. I just...my train of thought went to my sister, and then to Victor…"

"The kid in the well?"

Mycroft shuddered again. "It made me feel queasy, that's all."

"Not a surprise. Your sister..." Greg shook his head. “Beggars belief what she put you through, all of you.” Mycroft nodded. "And now your parents blame you for the havoc she caused?"

"They blame me for lying to them, pretending she was dead. It would have been better all round if she had died the night she torched our house." He sounded bitter. "I live in her shadow every day. Can you understand that? Every _fucking_ day." Coming from Mycroft the profanity sounded wrong. "She threatens everything I do, Gregory."

"Because you're alone…" A knock on the door stopped him saying more. He opened the door to find John, ready with his medical bag. 

"Come in, John." Mycroft sounded weary.

Greg left them to it. He needed to think. It was obvious Mycroft was under pressure from several angles, but Greg found that all he really wanted was to alleviate the man’s worries, to share the burden, to be the partner he needed. A knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts. 

"Yes?"

"It's John. May I come in?"

Greg opened the door. “Come in a minute, mate. What’s up?”

“Mycroft.”

“What about him?”

“Doctor/patient confidentiality says I can’t talk to you about his case.”

“Okay, then don’t.”

“Okay, I won’t. I never said any of this, okay? Talk to the stupid bugger yourself, will you? He’s massively stressed and it’s triggering his IBS. He’s not in the best of shape, to be honest. He’s underweight, his BP’s a bit high, and he’s not sleeping well. First off, he needs time off work. _Proper_ time off. Not this ‘I’m on standby’ lark either. He needs Rest, with a capital R. See if you can make him understand, he’s on a downward spiral, and it won’t be good. And I never said anything about this, right?” 

**0000000**

Greg knocked at Mycroft’s door and waited. Just as he thought he wasn’t going to be admitted, he heard “One moment,” and then Mycroft opened the door. He looked… tired, defeated.

“Mycroft…” Greg moved past him and into the room. “What on earth is wrong?”

“Apparently I am stressed…”

“Alright, why?” Mycroft sighed. “This a knock-on from Alex’ death, do you think?” Mycroft’s eyes met his, wary and a little sad. He nodded. “I suspect that to be the case. My IBS is playing up, and my blood pressure is on the high side, apparently.”

“So you should be relaxing. Stop worrying about the past, Mycroft. Start looking at the future.”

“What is there to look forward to, seriously?” Mycroft exclaimed. “Yet more of my parents’ keeping me at arms’ length, punishing me for something that wasn’t my fault, reminding me of how I am second best…”

“You are NOT second best.”

“I am _to them_ ,” Mycroft almost shouted. The man looked to be at the end of his rope. “I am frankly sick to my back teeth of being considered their _little boy_...Sherlock is the favourite, Eurus could do no wrong, and me? I was the quiet overweight child who was too clever for his own good, but who could never match up to his parents’ expectations. Mummy has never treated me with respect, you know that? I hold the security of the nation in my hands, I sit in on COBR meetings, I advise the Prime Bloody Minister, when he’ll deign to listen, and yet…all I get is “Mikey this” and “Mikey that” until I want to throw myself off the nearest cliff.…”

“You’re not alone there, Sunshine. Once a parent always a parent. You know, I’d lay bets that Boris’s mum still tells him off for forgetting to call her. We never grow up in our parents’ eyes. We’re still playing a game of _let’s pretend_ as far as they’re concerned. It doesn’t matter if we’re the Chief Constable or the bloke behind the till at Tescos, our mums still treat us as though we were five and we’ve just broken the greenhouse window with a football. Stop stressing about what she thinks. It’s what _you think_ that matters. Are you content in what you do? Are you good at it? Does it keep you up at night? Nobody else matters, Myc. You got yourself there, you achieved your position yourself. If you are content, or not, it’s your business. Not your mum’s, not mine, not anybody else’s. Yours, and yours alone.” He paused, looking into Mycroft’s eyes, willing the man to believe.

“I am a disappointment to them, Gregory.”

Greg took a step closer, and with it, a deep breath. _Now or never…_

“Not to me, you’re not.” Mycroft’s eyes met his, searching his face. “Look, Mycroft, this...this _charade_...this _let’s pretend,_ started out as a bit of a joke, granted. A way to get you mum off your back, but...I don't want it to be, love."

"Gregory…there is no requirement to keep calling me that…"

"I know," Greg said forcefully. “But what if I want to?”

“What?”

“Look, _love_ , I accepted Sherlock’s invite so I could get time with _you_ ; time to see if we fit, time to get to know you, the _real_ you. I know that underneath that Iceman exterior there’s someone quite capable of caring, and caring very deeply. You’re not the only one with fears, you know. I stuffed one relationship up, I have no desire to do it again. I’m not exactly the best catch. I’m in my mid-fifties, I’m near retirement, and I’m not in the absolute best of health…”

“You are not over the hill yet, Gregory.”

“Thanks for that, and no, I’m not, I know, but I am slowing down. I’m not young, or adventurous any more. I’m just…”

“Perfect,” Mycroft breathed softly.

“Pardon?”

“You are.. _.perfect_ , to me at least. How do you not know that you are...breathtaking, Gregory? Your hair, your hands...your eyes. You are...quite the handsomest man I have had the good fortune to meet. I fail to see why you would want me…"

"Sherlock said you were shy? Is he just being an arse?'

Mycroft sighed, a slight rose tint to his cheeks. "In the course of my work, perhaps I project confidence, arrogance, a cold indifference. It keeps people at arm's length. It stops people interfering. However…" Mycroft paused and pursed his lips, "intimacy is…" Blue eyes glanced at brown, flicked away again, uncertain. "I find it unsettling. I have no wish to be rendered vulnerable. In truth, I fear that the devastation left in the wake of a break up between us leads me to believe it would almost be better not to begin a relationship at all…" 

Greg sighed. "I see," he replied, trying hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He failed, obviously, because the change in tone alerted Mycroft who glanced at him in alarm.

"Gregory...no...I..I didn't mean...please…"

"Look, Mycroft, if you're not ready…"

"I... _want_ this with you, but...it terrifies me." 

"I want it too, so much it aches, but I do not want to hurt you. Terrifies me that I might. I never want to do that." 

"I did say _almost_ , Gregory. At present the consequences do not outweigh the benefits. The good still outweighs the bad, albeit marginally. I...I would still like to try, in the hope we might find an accord."

The smile that blossomed on Gregory's face would be one that Mycroft would remember 'til his dying day; relief, hope, joy, all chased their way across his handsome features. "Are you sure?"

"Not in the least, but I am not certain of anything right now. I need more data."

"That makes two of us, so...how do you want to go about getting it, then?"

"I thought…" Mycroft stepped closer, "we might...test the water, so to speak?"

"Mycroft, I have to warn you, you kiss me now and I'm not going to be responsible for my actions…" 

Blue eyes met warm brown, this time with the barest hint of mischief. Mycroft smiled, and stepped into Greg's personal space, leaning in. Greg met him halfway, snaked his arms all the way around the too-slim body and pulled him close, nuzzling the long neck, nosing into the soft skin behind his ear, whispering endearments into his skin. Mycroft whimpered softly at the contact. When their lips finally met, it was a gentle exploration, soft and safe and secure. 

"You okay with this?" Greg asked.

"Fine…"

"Any more certain yet?"

"I still need more data." The shy smile was replaced with an amused coquettish one, a glance out from under the eyelashes, hesitant, and in Greg's humble opinion, hot as Hell. He obliged, leaning in, tongue brushing Mycroft's lips in the gentlest of teasing encouragement. Mycroft gasped, lips parting, admitting the questing tongue and lighting up Greg's whole body by sucking gently on it in return. 

Greg pulled back, panting. “I swear,” he said, breathless, “any more and I am not going to be bothering with Christmas Dinner…”

Mycroft laughed delightedly. “Consider this an appetizer, my dear.”

“A tasty one at that. Look, love, life is too short. Let’s grab this while we can. Let’s enjoy it, and to Hell with anyone else.”

“Gregory, if you enter into a relationship with me, your life will never be the same. Increased security, a level of scrutiny hitherto unknown. Are you willing to put up with it? It is not to be taken lightly.”

“I have no secrets, no skeletons in my cupboard, but I’ve got a relationship with you, not the bloody Government. Look, Mycroft, I’m a copper, I’m used to scrutiny. Seriously, it doesn’t bother me. Now, shut up and kiss me again, it’s got to last me all evening....” 


	5. At Home with the Holmes'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch, presents, and a visit to a neighbour...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fluffy fill-in, because my writer's block has slammed home hard. Not done much for the last month. Hope you enjoy, even though it feels this chapter isn't driving the plot forward...

A bell sounded, tinkling up the stairs, interrupting the moment. 

"We are summoned," Mycroft said, reluctantly pulling back from the embrace. 

"We are?"

"Mm, that was the lunch bell."

Greg grinned. "We still at school?"

Mycroft smiled. "The house is not huge, but it is somewhat undignified to stand in the hall and yell at the top of one's lungs for one's diners to assemble."

"True. I can see that being beyond your mum's dignity."

"Beyond anyone's," Mycroft said. "Come on now, she won't appreciate us being late." 

Greg wasn't happy to part until he'd claimed one last lingering kiss. 

**000000**

"Mycroft," Greg said gently, pausing them on the stairs.

"What?"

"I just want you to know, whatever happens, from now on, you are my priority," Greg said. "I shall do my best to be civil with them, but if push comes to shove, I will step in, I hope you realise that? No more standing alone."

Mycroft took a deep steadying breath. "Alright, yes, I take your meaning, only…"

"Only?"

"I would prefer a stress-free holiday, Gregory. Please, promise you'll keep the peace."

Greg paused, giving him a look. "You’re asking a copper to keep the peace? Seriously?" Mycroft was treated to a blindingly delighted grin. "It’s my speciality, love. Look, I'm not deliberately going to antagonize anyone, but I _am_ on your side. From now on an attack on you is also an attack on me, understood?"

Mycroft paused, taking in the meaning of those words, then he nodded. "Understood," he said, "but please, Gregory...nevertheless, please do your utmost to maintain the peace." 

"Alright, Mycroft, I promise."

Mycroft smiled thankfully, and the two men continued downstairs.

"Ah, Mikey, there you are," his mother said, pouncing on them the moment their feet touched the hall carpet. "I need potatoes peeling and your brother isn't back yet…"

"I don't mind, Erica," Greg said, taking the peeler she was brandishing. "We'll do it together. I'll peel. Mycroft, love, why don't you wash and dry?" 

"I do like men who make themselves useful," Erica said, handing him two aprons. "Talking of which, Archie? Would you bring more firewood in, dear?"

They moved to the sink together, and spent the next ten minutes preparing the potatoes. Greg peeled, then handed them to Mycroft who washed and dried them, laying them in a bowl. They worked together quietly, shoulder to shoulder, content in each other's company. Neither saw Erica watching them, assessing. 

“They look good together,” Archie murmured as he carried in a basket laden with logs.

“It’s about time Mycroft found himself someone sensible,” she said. “Heaven knows he needs someone to keep his feet on the ground. Someone _adult_...”

**0000000**

"Dinner tonight is at seven. Guests arriving around six, I expect," Erica said as they were sitting down to lunch. "I've invited Gordon and Irina, you remember them from the Gardening Club? Bessie and Ted from the Feathers will be here too. Suzie and Alan are coming to us from her sister’s in Reading, but they're more than likely going to be late, according to Suzie, so they said they'd pop in for drinks after, and we’ve got Moira coming with the children, they’re staying for a few days…" 

Sherlock groaned. "Seriously?" 

"Seriously. I am not abandoning Moira after her divorce."

“Come on, Sherlock,” John said amenably. “Christmas is usually for kids.”

“Moira is our cousin,” Sherlock explained, seeing Greg’s curious glance. "Terribly normal and terribly boring."

"My kind of person then. How old are the children?" Greg enquired.

"Izzie is 10 and Rory is 12," Erica told him. “Very clever, both of them. Rory is in the Grammar School and Izzy will be going there next year.”

"Not quite teenagers then."

"As near as makes no matter," Sherlock muttered darkly and Greg grinned at him. 

"Thought you liked kids?" Greg commented.

"They're alright when they're young, before they get contaminated by stupid adult thinking," Sherlock muttered. "Ten is most likely far too late… By now they'll have turned into carbon copies of their mother, or worse, their father."

Lunch passed quietly enough, and then they retired to the living room for presents. Teas and coffees were fetched, and Mycroft noticed that his mother never failed to take up her traditional position in a chair by the tree to dole out the gifts. The first one she picked out brought a surprise. "For us?" She looked at Greg. "That's kind of you, my dear, but it wasn't necessary."

"Course it was," Greg said amiably. "You’ve invited me to join you, after all. Hope you like it." 

She handed it to Archie to unwrap, and even Sherlock's interest was piqued. Inside, lay a wooden box which could double as a planter, packed with gardening sundries; twine, copper and slate labels, a seed dibber, flower scissors, and seeds. 

“This is thoughtful, my boy. Thank you,” Archie said with a smile. “Erica is the gardener, rather than me, but I do enjoy the products of her labours.” 

“What on earth are flower bombs?” Erica asked. “Sounds rather dubious.”

“Well, Mycroft once told me you liked gardening, so I wanted something you would find useful. Flower bombs are for growing bee-friendly flowers. Just throw them at your garden border and leave them to spread and grow wild.”

“What a lovely idea,” Erica said. 

“You see, Sherlock,” John murmured. “Something to help your beloved bees?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing derogatory, which in Greg’s book was equal to an endorsement. 

“Gregory is nothing if not thoughtful, Mummy," Mycroft commented, softly.

Erica cast him a glance but said nothing as she brought the next present out. “This is for your little darling,” Erica cooed, handing over a rather sizable box to John, who was sitting with Rosie on his knee. 

“Oh. Wow. Thank you…Look at this, darling,” John said, and ‘helped’ Rosie to unwrap the box to find a substantial plastic tree inside. It turned out to have half a dozen colourful balls with faces on, which could be dropped in a hole at the top, to roll down a spiral slide around the trunk, hitting buttons as they went to make the tree flash lights and make more noises. There were five piano keys at the very bottom which could be played, and a little door which proved to be the place to store the balls when the toy was put away. It was about as big as Rosie when she was sitting down. Needless to say, Rosie was more interested in the box, but it was Greg who got her interested by simply getting on the floor and rolling the balls her way. John picked them up and dropped them in the tree and between them, they fired her curiosity. She giggled and gurgled and intercepted her dad, grabbing the balls and dropping them in herself, propping herself up on the thing. 

“And we haven’t left our bigger guests out either," Erica declared. "Greg, John, these are from both of us. A little last minute, when the boys wanted to invite their friends, we couldn't have either of you left out, could we? We hope you like them.” She handed John and Greg a small box each, which the men unwrapped to find sleek black multi-tools. John’s was a swiss army penknife with multiple blades, and Greg’s was a pair of pliers with fold-out tools in the handles. “Wow, that’s...that’s really fantastic,” John said, appreciatively. 

“Seriously, I love this. Thank you both so much,” Greg added, unfolding and proceeding to read the leaflet that came with the thing, detailing its many uses, sixteen in all. Everyone ignored Sherlock’s eye roll. “I feel like a kid with a new toy," Greg said with a smile. 

“This is for you, Mikey,” Erica said, handing over the soft package to Mycroft. “From Greg.” 

Mycroft took it in a bit of a daze. He had not expected anything. The label simply said 'to Mycroft, have a very Happy Christmas, from Greg'. Nothing revealing, like kisses, or sentimental wishes. Just a no-nonsense label, thankfully. He was a little trepidatious, unwrapping the gaudy christmas paper. He wondered what Greg’s taste had led him to choose, and was surprised when he caught a glimpse of soft blue-grey. His fingers touched softness as he unwrapped the scarf Greg had bought. The blue-grey paisley pattern was subtle, understatedly elegant, and perfectly him. “Oh...Gregory, it’s…”

“Bor-ing,” Sherlock announced.

“Shut it, you,” Greg said, grinning. “You’re just jealous.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock muttered. “Your choice of colour is terrible.” 

“Nonsense, Sherlock,” Erica said. “The colour is perfect. It goes with Mycroft’s eyes.” 

“My point exactly,” Greg agreed, ignoring the fact that it had been Sherlock’s idea. He didn’t doubt that Sherlock was simply being his usual self, proved a moment later by the look the man gave him, one eyebrow slightly raised and a quirk of his lips. "Arse," Greg murmured, low enough that Erica didn't hear.

"Language, Gerry, there are children present," Sherlock murmured with a smirk, moving to join Rosie on the floor with her new toy.

“Gregory, it is lovely, thank you,” Mycroft said, smoothing his hand across the soft wool. Greg grinned at him in delight. 

**0000000**

The afternoon passed quietly, and as far as Greg was concerned, that was the best way. Nobody was pulling him into work, nobody was disturbing his peace and quiet. He sat happily on the sofa, a cup of decent coffee on the small table beside him, and biscuits on the coffee table in front of him. Mycroft had gifted him a pair of soft black leather gloves, lined with cashmere. The soft leather was a delight, the silky cashmere lining warm and snug, and much more expensive than Greg would ever have bought himself. Beside him, the giver of said gift leaned into Greg’s side, content. There they stayed, their feet to the fire—a real fire in the grate—dozing pleasantly. Greg wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders, drawing him closer. Mycroft laid his head on Greg’s shoulder. It was the most content Greg ever remembered being. 

“Mikey,” Erica said, interrupting their cocoon of peace. “I wonder, would you visit Mrs Thornberry for me this afternoon? I have a basket for her…”

“Yes, Mummy. Although why not ask Sherlock, he seems to like going for a walk with John and Rosie.”

“They’ve already been out this morning. They visited Mr Rice for me. Come on, dear. You need the exercise. Walk off that lunch. Why not take Greg with you, show him the village?”

“Oh, very well,” Mycroft sighed, and tried to lever himself out of Greg’s arms, finding his partner had suddenly developed the tendencies of an octopus. “Please, Gregory. Let me go,” he murmured into the man’s ear. “Mummy insists on gifting our neighbours every year. Mr Rice and Mrs Thornberry live alone, and appreciate a visit. Please say you don't mind exercising your social skills?”

“Delivering alms to the poor?” Greg murmured in his ear.

“Neither of them is poor,” Mycroft said. “They simply have no family near. It is Mummy's good deed, I suppose.”

“And a nice idea. Your mum has a heart.” Greg reluctantly let Mycroft go. 

“It is buried somewhere in that fierce exterior," Mycroft said. "A little hard to find perhaps, like mine.”

"Not hard if you look in the right place," Greg said. 

Greg followed Mycroft into the hall, and they pulled on their coats and scarves. Mycroft snugged his new scarf around his neck with pleasure and he noticed Greg pulling on his new gloves with obvious enjoyment. Greg grabbed the basket Erica had given them, and fumbled with the latch on the door. 

Some children ran down the street as they walked toward the center of the village. They were obviously playing on new bicycles. Mycroft watched them with a vague smile. 

"Reminds me of getting a second hand bike one Christmas," Greg said. "Mum and Dad couldn't afford new, but dad did it up; stripped it down, repainted it, fitted a new chain and a seat, oiled the wheels. It was great. Had a few dents here and there, but it lasted me another six years, that thing did. I outgrew it, but it was great while it lasted."

“I think,” Mycroft said carefully, “I never stood much of a chance when I was a child.”

“What makes you say that?”

"School was a disaster, so Mummy removed me, when it became apparent that I was getting bored and frustrated. I learned too quickly, it wasn’t challenging me, so she home schooled all of us for a while, before it became apparent that we needed something more. However, the introduction of other children after that was...not wise. It did not go according to plan, although it did prove to us that Sherlock was not stupid. The only child he could relate to was Victor, and when he disappeared, Sherlock was devastated. Couldn’t cope.”

“Surely, shouldn’t your parents have got some help for you all, some sort of therapy?”

“Where to turn? Mummy and father were somewhat lacking in parental skills. Kind, in their way. They meant well, but they allowed us to run a bit wild. Mummy wanted us to experience life, she was very much of the Swallows and Amazons style of schooling."

“Oh yeah, that book…What was the author’s name...Arthur Ransom?” Greg asked, wracking his brain. Mycroft nodded.

“When the children in the story telegram their father for permission to sail, he famously writes back ‘Better drowned than duffers. If not duffers, won’t drown.’ I think mummy believed we were not duffers and therefore we would stay safe, because we were clever, so she left us to it. We spent one summer almost living in the treehouse at the bottom of the garden. We made a fire, we roasted potatoes, we went hunting, although we ever caught anything. We tried to fish, we climbed trees, we played hide and seek, pirates…” Mycroft sighed. “Idyllic, in its way. I recall we stayed out, camping under the stars for almost the entire week. I was fourteen, Sherlock was seven and Eurus was six. We only ventured in when we ran out of food. We were dirty and our clothes were ripped, but mummy just looked at us, asked if we’d had a good time, and then suggested we go bathe. No sooner had we gathered clean clothes than we were away again...” 

Greg’s eyebrows were near his hairline. “Bloody Hell, I wish I’d been as lucky. Closest I came to that was a holiday in the New Forest once. I wasn’t allowed to run wild like that though.” 

“I recall it was the last summer where Eurus behaved...normally. We were thick as thieves. The following summer, Victor came on the scene and...well, the rest is history. Eurus began to act oddly, and...we did not understand, so we let her alone.”

Greg frowned. “No therapy?”

“I dare say, had she been at a school they would have picked up on it, but she didn’t attend school, and our parents were not great at identifying behavioural problems. Eurus was very good at acting normally around the people who mattered.”

“Aren't there schools for gifted kids? Why did your mum not send you to one?”

"Mm, yes, but there was nowhere close and mummy was actually against us going into boarding school so young."

"I guess that was something, at least."

"Uncle Rudy had children of his own, Moira is one of his daughters. He was the one who knew what to suggest, but Mummy had never liked her elder brother very much. They were not exactly close, there was a ten year age gap, and she refused to take his advice. I think it may have been part of what prompted him to lie to her about our sister and take matters into his own hands concerning her care. He never even considered what it would do to father.” 

“In other words, you didn't have a normal childhood, did you?”

“We did not have a regular childhood, no. We just did not fit in, we didn’t know how to make friends.” 

Greg shook his head. “Glad you survived it all,” he said, dragging Mycroft’s arm through the loop of his own as they walked down the lane. “Very glad…”

 _No one jumps to mind as a good recipient of the stone yet,_ Greg thought as they walked. He would have to ensure its continued safety and hope he found someone. It was...odd, having its weight in his pocket. He would miss it when he finally passed it along. Guessing that until then he would just have to keep it safe and secure, Greg sighed, softly. The wind masked his exhale, and then Mycroft was dragging him through a green painted gateway onto an immaculate garden path, heading to the front door of a rather nice shade of wine red. They passed rose bushes on the way and Greg wondered how spectacular they would be in summer. The place had an idyllic feel to it, a mini Utopia in rural England. 

“It looks glorious in summer,” Mycroft said, deducing Greg’s expression. 

“Bloody Hell, how do you do that?” Greg grinned.

“Your expression. I am frighteningly good at reading people, Gregory. You should know that.” He reached out and rang the bell. 

“Well, read this,” Greg said, smiling at him. Mycroft glanced at him, eyes meeting Greg’s. His eyebrows rose slightly and a blush rose to his cheeks. 

_Think I love you, you daft git_ , Greg thought, willing Mycroft to read his mind. _Wish you knew. Wish I didn’t have to say it aloud._ He watched Mycroft as they waited, watched the dawning realisation of...something. Mycroft’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth…

“Oh, hello there, you’re Erica’s boy aren’t you? Michael…” An elderly lady stood in the doorway, an expectant smile on her face. 

“Mycroft,” Mycroft said, the moment broken. 

Greg schooled his expression into a smile. “Greg Lestrade, I’m a guest of the Holmes for Christmas.” 

“My partner,” Mycroft said, quickly. Greg shot him a surprised glance, but Mycroft ignored him and followed the lady when she invited them inside. _Wonders would never cease,_ Greg thought, following the two of them into the warmth of the kitchen. He was greeted by a solemn-looking greyhound, and two cats lounged on the rug in front of the aga. A third slid by him, on the way to the windowsill. 

“Tea?” the lady said, and they both nodded. “Sit you down then, indulge an old woman and stay for a while, won’t you? 


	6. Christmas Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit late but this has been causing me terrible writers' block. It's become a bit of a Rom-com...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might also have noticed I've rewritten some of this, purely to adjust it to the last chapter rewrite that I am currently working on. In case anyone is interested, I'm also thinking of Rory as a very young Taron Egerton.

Their visit passed rather pleasantly. Mrs ‘Call me Wendy’ Thornberry was a genial woman in her late eighties, spry and quick-witted. She was a retired illustrator, still working on the occasional project, but largely out of touch with what remained of her widely travelled family. She was kept company by her dog and the cats, who all lounged around the room as if they owned it, _which knowing cats, they probably do_ , Greg thought.

“My husband died five years ago, " she told them as she filled a kettle. "I have a daughter in Australia, my son and his family have lived in Michigan since 2009, and my sister’s boy is in Paris. Nobody lives close,” she explained, cheerfully accepting the hamper basket from Mycroft. “Just me, and the animals. They’re all men, so I am outnumbered. They are all affectionate though, except Arthur if he's hungry.” She ruffled the fur on the head of the large ginger whose eyes dropped closed in bliss. He began to purr, loudly. “Arthur is twelve, and believes himself to be the head honcho, while Eric there,” she said, nodding to the larger tabby cat on the rug, wrapped around his black and white sidekick, “together with Buster, neither of them ever listen to him, and constantly challenge his authority. I’m convinced they are the gay couple in the house, they are forever together. Herbie, my greyhound, acts like their tolerant straight neighbour, while Arthur is the grumpy homophobe.” She chuckled affectionately. “I’m just their landlady,” she said, reminiscent of Mrs Hudson. “Here, give this to Erica for me, won’t you?" She handed over a gift of her own, a bottle wrapped in paper covered in sparkly Christmas trees. "I made sloe gin the year before last, a rather good vintage. This one is a sloe whisky. It's ready to drink. Do tell her I shall call in on them in the New Year.”

“That's kind of you. I shall tell her,” Mycroft said, and took a sip of the tea she had brewed for them. He smiled contentedly. It was brewed to perfection. "I'm sure you'll be welcome. Mummy does love to receive visitors."

"I know she does." Wendy turned shrewd eyes on them both. “So, as I am an outspoken nosey old woman, with enough money to be called eccentric and not merely mad, did I hear you declare yourselves to be like Eric and Buster? You’re partners?” She grinned. “I only ask because I’ve had Erica bending my ear about her successful eldest son before now, the one who lives in London and works for the Government.”

“You have?” Mycroft said, startled.

“Yes, I have, and am I right to assume that you are he?”

“I suppose I must be,” Mycroft admitted, bemused by the admission. “Considering I am the eldest and my brother doesn’t work for the Government, I assume she is talking about me, as we have a dearth of other brothers to call upon to fit the bill.”

Wendy chuckled again at Mycroft’s humour. Her humour was infectious, Greg thought, smiling along with her. “She’s rather enthusiastic about you, my boy,” Wendy said. “So, any plans to delight your mother and tie the knot?”

“I am not certain that such an event would be considered a _delight_ ,” Mycroft replied. "She has always wanted grandchildren."

"Pish, m'boy. You can always adopt."

Greg couldn't contain a smile. “It’s early days yet, Ma’am,” he added, scratching Arthur between his ears as the cat settled comfortably on his knees. “but yes, we are partners. That doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“Not on your nelly,” she said, with a cheeky grin. “Nothing could bother me less. You two make of life what you will, and take the bull by the horns. Life is too short, so tell any naysayers to bugger off,” she declared. “Or send ‘em to me, I’ll sort ‘em out.” Greg laughed appreciatively. “We will, I promise.”

"See that you do, and I think you’ll find your mother will be happier than you realise. A summer wedding at the village church would be nice. We have a Saxon tower, you know, and a gay-friendly vicar, too. As a matter of fact, I also do the flower arrangements for the church…” She smiled broadly and proffered the teapot. “Now, can I offer you another two lovebirds another cup?"

They chatted for a while longer, the winter sun westering early, shadows drawing in beyond the curtains. Wendy flicked on the lights, stoked her woodburner, and offered to put the kettle on again. Reluctantly, Mycroft put down his cup. “No, thank you, Wendy. I don’t wish to throw a spanner in the works, so we really should be making a move. We have to get ready for this evening.”

“So we do,” Greg agreed, apologetically turfing the large cat gently off his knee. “If we’re not back soon, we’ll be on the naughty step.” 

Wendy tutted. “Well, I’m skyping the family later, and then it’s a nice hot cocoa and bed for me. I do hope you all have a good time, and wish your parents Happy New Year for me as well. Thank you for coming, both of you. Here,” she said, retrieving another bottle. “Take one for yourselves, and come back in the summer, Greg. The place is rather lovely then. I'd appreciate another visit." She paused at the door as Mycroft put on his overcoat and tugged his gloves on. "Don't let his mother intimidate you," she murmured for Greg's ears only. "She's only human. A staggering intellect, but fails to understand human nature. Stick with him, he deserves you."

**0000000**

“Surprised your mum doesn’t invite her over,” Greg commented as they walked back as quickly as they could through the winter dusk, breathing out steam in the chilly air. 

“Oh, she does, every year, but Wendy skypes her family on Christmas day, regular as clockwork. Does it in the evening due to the time difference, and she’s refused every invitation so far. On the other hand, perhaps she isn’t interested in socialising with my mother.”

Greg smiled. “Sensible lady?” 

“Perhaps.” 

“She did say she would call on my mother though, so she can’t hate socialising that much…” Greg wondered at that. She had seemed a rather nice person, and a strong advocate of their partnership. 

Hand in hand with Mycroft as they walked briskly through the village, Greg found himself a little dazed that his own wish seemed to have come to pass. He couldn’t forget the clause to the wishes, though. Pass the stone to someone who needs it. He would need to give that some serious thought. It didn't seem on the surface as though Wendy would need it.

It was nice to get back inside, into the warmth. Erica was still busy in the kitchen, but she took a moment to follow them into the living room.

“Mrs Thornberry sends her best wishes for the New Year,” Mycroft told his mother. He handed over the bottle wrapped in its festive paper. Erica took it, and unwrapped it to find the sloe whisky. 

“That’s nice of her,” Erica said. “Is she skyping again?” Mycroft nodded. “Always her excuse.” 

“She seems like a nice lady,” Greg said.

“She’s always been a good neighbour,” Erica replied. “Never comes at Christmas though, despite being on her own every year. A bit sad really. She and Norman used to come all the time. Since he died...she doesn’t seem to want to take part in much, although she makes an effort for the summer fete...”

Mycroft checked his watch. “We should go and get ready,” he said. “Time waits for no man.”

“Yes, you do that,” she said. “Oh, my brandy sauce!” She dashed back into the kitchen, Archie watching her fondly. 

“Never stops, that woman,” he said, peering over his half-spectacles benignly. “I’d better go get ready myself…Doubtless my hot date for Christmas will want the bathroom herself soon. Doesn't do to keep a lady waiting." He put down his paper and got to his feet as Mycroft headed for the stairs, Greg on his heels. 

“Never does to keep _that_ particular lady waiting, I’ll bet,” Greg murmured to Mycroft when they got to his room. Mycroft chuckled.

“Not in the least. She’s a terror when they’re getting ready to go out,” Mycroft commented. “We never hear the end of it if we’re not ready on time, but she can take all the time she needs. Believe me, hosting them when they visit London is not for the fainthearted.” 

“Well, when they come again, we can do it together,” Greg said, flooring Mycroft with the possibility.

**0000000**

“Moira, dear, hello. How are you? Bearing up?" Erica grabbed her niece into a hug as she came in through the door, her two children following slightly sullenly behind her. Mycroft was coming downstairs, back in his formal three piece, gold watch chain and cuff links glinting, hair tamed neatly. His suit was a dark blue, a touch sober, but it fitted him well and flattered his figure. He had even added a festive touch, his pocket square finely printed with small snowflakes. The matching tie set it off nicely. At first glance the snowflakes looked like dots until one took a close look. Mycroft rather appreciated the subtle approach. 

“Hello, Aunty Erica, you look well.” Moira looked and sounded tired. 

“I’m fine, dear, but you look worn out.”

“Fashed and frazzled. So busy with work, and the divorce, but I’m finally free of him. He has a court order and no access,” she said firmly, “although he’s appealing…”

“I’m sure you can fight it, darling.”

“I am going to, but he’s making it hard.” She turned to Mycroft as he arrived and smiled. “Myke, how are you?”

“Fine, thank you, Moira. Come on in and relax. Leave your bags, we can take them up for you later.”

“Oh, thanks. I am gasping for a drink.”

“Tea, dear?” Archie said, disappearing into the kitchen.

“Thanks, Uncle Archie….Oh, who…?” Her gaze had travelled above Mycroft’s head, up the stairs. Mycroft turned, and his heart rate ramped up. _Gregory was...oh, my goodness...he’s beautiful_. Dressed in a marine blue Harris Tweed, complete with waistcoat and russet pocket square, his tie done in an impressive full windsor, Greg was suave, gentlemanly, _and...oh, so attractive._ It was not lost on Mycroft that his mother paused to take it in too. The cut of the jacket showed off the broad shoulders, and his silvering hair had been carefully tousled. He walked to join Mycroft, sticking out a hand for Moira to shake, glancing over at the kids, a wide friendly grin in place.

“Moira, I would like you to meet my partner,” Mycroft said, the words feeling odd in his mouth. “Detective Chief Inspector Gregory Lestrade.” Mycroft added. “Greg, this is my cousin, Moira...Blake?” He suggested. Moira shook her head with a grimace.

“Fanshaw. I’ve gone back to my maiden name,” she said. “So not using his name any more, the Ba…”

“And these are her children,” Mycroft added, quickly. “Elizabeth and Rory.”

“I’m Izzy, not Elizabeth,” Izzy complained, pouting.

“Izzy, be polite,” her mother insisted. The girl huffed and flounced off into the lounge. “I’m sorry,” Moira said. “Izzy can be difficult.”

“Leave her to me,” Erica said with a smile, and followed the girl into the lounge. 

“Don’t worry about it," Greg said. "Can’t be an easy time for any of you.”

“If there is anything I can do, Moira,” Mycroft said, “all you have to do is ask. I am sure I can have someone take him aside for a pleasant chat, dissuade him from pursuing a counterclaim.” 

“Really? Can you do that?”

“I’m in Government, Moira. Your father was my mentor. Of course I can do that.”

“I can confirm,” Greg said, with a grin, “that he really can. Scary is our Mycroft, when he wants to be. And if he can't, let me. I'm quite good at dealing with bastards.” His words raised a smile.

"Thank you, both of you," Moira said. "Honestly, I'm at the end of my rope. He ran off with his secretary and now he wants custody...and he's still demanding half the house value, despite the ruling. He's getting a lawyer friend on it and I can't afford a lengthy court case or to buy him out." 

"You really a policeman?" Rory said, disbelieving as only a 12 year old could be. 

"I am, yes," Greg said. "Serious Crimes."

"You investigate murders?" Rory said, eyes wide. 

"Rory," his mother said warningly.

"Yes, that is my division,” Greg said. "Among other things." Out of his mother's eyeline, Greg winked at the boy and grinned. “Tell you later,” he murmured, and Rory, he was interested to note, grinned back. A knock at the door interrupted them, and Archie moved to answer it, his wife being occupied in the lounge with their grand-niece. 

"Gordon, Irina,” Archie said expansively. “Welcome to our home…"

Over the next twenty minutes, people arrived, and bottles of wine and flowers and chocolates were exchanged, and coats hung up and introductions made until Greg was dizzy with it. He hated gatherings as a rule, he was no good with names. By seven, everyone had arrived. Gordon and Irina from the Gardening club had been joined by Bessie and Ted from the Feathers, a nice down-to-earth couple who loved all things vintage to the point of dressing 50s style. Everyone gathered in the living room, near the fire, and drinks were handed out, as well as more presents. In the next half hour, Greg learned that Gordon was a retired accountant, Irina had been head buyer for a large department store, and now they ran a smallholding on the other side of the village, breeding pygmy goats and Buff Orpington hens. Bessie and Ted had kept the Feathers for the last two decades, and knew everyone in the area, and everything that happened that was notable in a small village. 

Greg joined Mycroft as he leaned on the door frame, watching the activity in the room. “Everything alright, love?”

"No, it is not. We have another three hours of this," Mycroft whispered. "Christmas feels like it’s already lasted a week. I'm in agony…" Greg smiled, snuck his arm around his partner’s waist and pulled him closer in a supportive hug.

“I know what you mean. Ever since my ex- dragged me to the neighbours’ swingers evening, I’ve had a dislike of dinner parties…”

“Great Heavens, Gregory...is that still a thing?”

“What, swingers? You betcha. I ducked out though. Got a bit angry, truth to tell. I think she was looking to get me to agree to an affair. I think she felt if we’d both done it...I wouldn’t be able to say anything about her. She got me there by lying though. I was livid…We separated shortly after that.” 

"I've had a text from Suzie," Erica declared, as she brought in the sherry. "She and Alan are earlier than expected. They're on their way now. ETA 7.45. Does anyone mind waiting for dinner, then they can join us?" There were nods of consent all round but Mycroft made a little moue of discontent behind his mother's back. Greg smiled in sympathy. His own stomach was rumbling at all the scents of good food emanating from the kitchen. 

Sherlock and John disappeared briefly to put Rosie to bed, in a travel cot in Sherlock's room. She was already asleep on the sofa, having been admired and cooed over by everybody, including Izzy. John returned with one half of a baby monitor which he placed on the mantlepiece and then the two men joined in with the conversations as if they'd never been gone in the first place.

Alan and Suzie turned out to be another pleasant couple from the village. It looked like Erica and Archie had a talent for picking pleasant couples with ordinary habits. These two were in their forties, both primary school teachers; Suzie taught in the village school and Alan in a primary school on the edge of the nearest town, ten miles away. Also part of the gardening club, they gravitated toward Gordon and Irina, whom they already knew, and Greg distinctly heard them in a heated discussion comparing the merits of Buff Orpingtons against Golden Comets. Greg was happy to leave them to it. He wasn't sure what a Golden Comet was but if it was a hen, with a name like that, he wasn't sure he wanted to know why. He spent more time chatting to the children, who gravitated toward him as if drawn by some invisible force. 

“Of course I play Assassin’s Creed,” Mycroft heard Greg say. “Black Flag’s the best…”

“No it isn’t,” Rory countered, and Izzy joined them on the sofa, sneaking a look over her brother’s shoulder at the game on the pad he was using. 

“Go on then, smart arse, which is your favourite?” Greg replied. Rory was obviously intrigued at being called smart arse, and fixed Greg with a look. 

“Got to be Odyssey,” he said, firmly. “It’s the most customisable, and it’s huge…”

“Okay, you got me, but you got to admit Black Flag runs a close second…”

“Maybe…” Rory said, drawing it out. 

“Aw, come on, those ships…” Mycroft listened to the mostly unintelligible conversation for a few moments more, marvelling at the way Greg had engaged with both the children.

“...and cutlery!” Rory was saying.

“What about it?”

“There’s always too much. I mean, who needs three forks and two spoons…”

“One’s for soup and one’s for desert, Silly,” Izzy replied.

“I am not silly,” Rory snapped. “It makes no sense. Why do they have so many?”

“Adults like that kind of thing,” Greg said, placatingly.

“Why?”

“I dunno. I’ll have to go ask one.” For a moment, with a response like that, Mycroft was sure Greg was channeling his brother. 

“You really investigate murders?”

“I do.”

“Can I ask you something about them?”

“Depends. I doubt your mother would approve.”

“She doesn’t approve of much these days.”

Greg smiled. “There’s a good reason for that. Adults get stressed about real life, that’s all. She’s worried, probably about your dad…”

“He’s a bastard…”

“Rory! Shh!” Izzy said, scandalized. “Don’t let mum hear you.”

“Well, that’s what she calls him, and she’s right. He is a bast…”

“Listen to your sister,” Greg murmured, gently. “Parents never like to hear their kids swear, believe me. Just...tone it down, lad.”

“Well, you called me _smart arse_ ,” Rory complained. Greg grinned and winked.

“Go on then, why is he such a bastard anyway?” he asked. 

“He gets drunk, and he hit her once. That was enough. Next thing we know, we’re round at Grandmas and she’s splitting from him. Our dad is not a nice person, Greg. He’s…”

“He forgets our birthdays, never comes to school concerts, or sports. Grandad never liked him, Gran says.” Greg glanced at Izzy. Like all teenage girls, she was rebellious, but she wasn’t stupid. 

“Anybody bring any charges against him?”

“No, and please don’t tell mum that we know, but…”

“But?”

“She tried, but she was told it wouldn’t work, it would be her word against his. No witnesses.”

“Like that, hm? No wonder. Look, kid, whatever you think, it wasn’t either of your faults, you know that, yeah?”

“Well, duh,” Rory said, facepalming pointedly.

“Okay, smart arse, I know, but the stats show most people of your age blame themselves for their parents’ split.”

“Have you got kids?” Rory asked.

“No, thank god, if you two are good examples of the breed,” Greg said with a grin. Rory looked suitably affronted. Izzy grinned. “Look,” Greg added, “I know how stressful it’ll be for your mum, so just take it easy on her, both of you. I’ve been there too, and while my wife wasn’t half as bad as your dad, it’s still hard.”

“You were married? Why did you split?” Izzy asked.

“You need to learn some tact, young lady,” Greg said, but his voice was gentle. “My wife and I split up because we just...drifted apart, I guess. She no longer felt she loved me. It happens sometimes. Neither of us was at fault, I guess. We just...stopped loving each other.” He knew it was a bit of a lie, but he wasn’t about to go into gory detail with these two. 

“Mum told us you and Uncle Mycroft are together.”

“She did, did she?” 

“Does that mean that you’re gay?”

“No, I’m what’s called bisexual. It’s okay to like both girls and boys, you know.”

“I think I’m like that,” Rory said, which came somewhat out of left field, and left Greg wondering if he should be having this conversation with a youngster. 

“He talks about it to me all the time,” Izzy said. “About liking both boys and girls…I think it’s icky...”

“Izz, it is _not_ icky,” Rory defended. 

“Is too,” she replied. “I don’t mean _you_ are, I mean...it...you know...boy and girl... _stuff._ It’s icky. Kissing and stuff...ugh... _”_ She shuddered. 

Rory rolled his eyes. “Go talk to Aunty Erica then,” he suggested, reasonably.

Pouting, Izzy wandered off. 

Greg was determined that this conversation should be terminated as soon as possible. He knew he was on very dodgy ground. “Well, you’re young yet. You should talk to your mum about it. She should be the one to tell you more, not some random stranger.”

“But you’re not a random stranger, your uncle Mycroft’s boyfriend,” Rory argued.

Greg chuckled. “Okay, I’m not a stranger in that sense, but really, this is parent stuff, kid.”

Rory’s eyes were downcast. “Yeah, but mum’s mum...I mean, she’s...it’s embarrassing. Anyway, she’s a woman, and you’re a man, like me.”

“Guess so, lad. Look, what I will say is this. When you’re young, you sometimes don’t have all the information, you haven’t grown enough, done enough with your life to know some things for certain, but one thing I do know. Never let anyone tell you what you feel is wrong, yeah?” 

“Well, _duh_ ,” Rory said again. “I know that much. We get taught equality and gender stuff at school, in Citizenship class, but it’s not the same as being able to ask someone.”

“Agreed, but I could get into trouble talking to you about it. I really think it’s your mum’s right and responsibility to tell you, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks for telling me this much...Do some people murder each other because they want to get out of a relationship?”

Greg binked. It seemed his luck was out when it came to awkward conversations. “A large percentage of people who are murdered know their attacker, but there are many reasons why we kill each other. For instance, did you know…” Greg paused for effect, glanced first one way and then the other conspiratorially. He leaned close. “You have a lot less than point one percent chance of being murdered, you know.”

“What’s that mean? I’m not great at maths.”

“12 out of every million people are murdered in the UK. You’ve a lot more chance of being hit by a bus, so take care crossing roads, okay?”

“You have a one in three hundred million chance of being killed by a shark,” Sherlock interjected.

“Woah,” Rory exclaimed, “that’s _sick_ …” 

“Is that what passes for _cool_ these days?” Greg murmured and Sherlock, grinning, nodded. 

“What did you used to say?” he snarked, “ _Groovy_? Oo, _trendy_...”

“Shut up!” Greg hissed. He looked Sherlock in the eye and declared, “You can make that zero chance of being eaten by a shark if you never go in the sea.”

“Not exactly. Make it zero if you never visit a sealife center, work as a marine zoologist in a zoo, or go fishing in shark infested waters…” 

“Or the shark doesn’t like how you taste," Rory added, casually, as his assassin fought off another dozen or so attackers.

“What, you realised the kids are perhaps not as much of a lost cause as you thought?” Greg asked Sherlock a little later when they had finally been able to leave Rory to his game. 

“I was perhaps a little peremptory in my conclusion, I will grant you.” 

“Is that Sherlock-speak for ‘I was wrong’?” 

“Bugger off,” Sherlock said with a grin, and went to find John.

Mycroft kept sneaking glances at Greg, observing how comfortable he was with the children, how sociable he was with perfect strangers, and how he kept sneaking glances at Mycroft when he thought Mycroft wasn’t looking. The man was perfect, and Mycroft couldn’t quite believe they were finally together. Even Greg's interactions with his brother were handled with aplomb. Whatever magic was working this Christmas, Mycroft was not going to question it.

The dinner was good, Greg had to admit. A full Christmas spread was laid out on the table, accompanied by all the trimmings. There was a large turkey, crackers on every plate, candles flickering among the food… 

"Erica, this is really beautiful,” Greg said, sitting himself down beside Mycroft. 

"Thank you, Greg. Kind of you to say."

All through dinner though, Greg found he wanted nothing more than to take Mycroft upstairs and ravish him. He wondered when it would be politic to get away. 

After the main course, Mycroft watched as Greg excused himself, leaving the room unhurriedly. Engaged in mindless chatter with Bessie concerning something about prize winning mincepies, Mycroft nevertheless noted that his _partner_ —the word still felt odd in his mind—took a little more time than was strictly necessary. However, Greg returned to the table well in time for the pudding and brandy sauce, looking not one whit disturbed, so Mycroft assumed his reason for taking so long wasn’t dire. The man caught Mycroft's eye and winked. _Ah_. Mycroft frowned. _What have you done?_

Greg smiled back. He winked _. Nothing much, don't worry_ , his eyes said.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow but he didn't say anything. Greg leaned in and murmured in his ear. "Just prep Lady Bracknell for action again." 

Twenty minutes later, as coffee was being served, both Mycroft's phone and Greg's chimed with a text. Mycroft exchanged a glance with Greg, and both men simultaneously checked their phones. Then Mycroft exchanged a concerned glance, right where mummy could see him. Mycroft saw Sherlock flick a glance at him, and then to John, who looked at Greg, curiosity written across his face. Mycroft put down his phone, and Greg followed suit, seamlessly continuing the conversation with their respective neighbours. Moments later, their phones chimed again.

"You'll have to excuse us, ladies and gentlemen," Mycroft said seriously, pushing his chair back. "I’m sorry, Mummy, Father, but duty calls. We won't be long. Gregory?" Greg followed on Mycroft’s heels as he hurried upstairs to retrieve his laptop.

“Seriously, Gregory?” Mycroft asked once his computer was running, bedroom door closed behind them. “What in the world have you done? I have an email from Anthea telling me you asked her to invent an emergency. Was this your idea of a joke?”

“I asked Anthea to text us with an emergency," Greg explained. “Come on, Myc. I’m dying in there. I needed a break. You did say you were in agony too. I can’t stop thinking about taking you to bed, and I have nothing whatever in common with three middle aged couples who don’t have anything more important to chat about than chickens. I swear to you, I am one Buff Orpington away from going completely nuts.” He watched as Mycroft initiated a secure chatbox.

"Apparently, Operation Charade is Go,” Mycroft said, reading as Anthea typed. “She wishes us a Merry Christmas, and hopes this has done the trick. She wants to know whether to invent a fake crisis scenario for us, or should she send the car and spirit us away?”

“Much as I’d like to be spirited away, I think it would be best to stay. We can go home tomorrow.”

“She also asks if she needs to initiate paperwork for a significant relationship? What shall I tell her?”

“What do you want to tell her?”

“I want to tell her yes, but…”

“But?”

“It is intrusive, Gregory. I’m not sure you would want to agree to such invasive prying into your background and motivations.”

“Nothing I’m not used to.”

“I beg to differ. A background check on you would be...very thorough. It would need to be, if only to reassure my peers that I am unlikely to be compromised. One of them, either Edwin or Alicia, will have to interview you.”

“Tell her yes, then. Bring it on, and while you’re at it, give her a raise. I like her sense of humour.”

"Of course the woman has a sense of humour. She needs one, working with me,” Mycroft admitted, “and so will you…”

Greg chuckled. “You can’t be that bad, love.”

“I like to think that I am not, but, nine times out of ten, the situations we find ourselves in are somewhat tedious. Life in the Cabinet Office is not all intrigue and excitement. However, I am not given to...frivolity.”

“That’s what you have me for.”

“Life with you will definitely be interesting,” Mycroft intoned. “Inventing fake emergencies, inveigling my assistant to aid and abet your mischief. God help us all if you ever get your hands on membership of the Diogenese. What am I to do with you?”

“Love me? Take me to bed? How soundproof are these walls?”

“Don’t you dare!” Mycroft exclaimed. “These walls are paper thin. If we get up to anything, you will be quiet, and I mean quiet, silent as a church mouse, or I shall punish you…”

“Oo, promises,” Greg said, eyes lighting up with a cheeky grin.

“Gregory, please, I asked you to keep the peace.”

“You asked me to keep the peace, not necessarily to keep quiet…”

“Damnable man. You are incorrigible.” Mycroft batted ineffectually at Greg’s hands as the man grabbed him into a hug. 

“Should Bloody hope so,” Greg grinned, placing kisses on Mycroft’s neck. “Admit it, you need me. I am not letting you get boring in your old age, mate. Promise me we will not become another Gordon and Irina.”

“Heaven forbid. I dislike chickens intensely. All I ask is a quiet life, Gregory, not a boring one.” 

Greg’s grin was blinding. “Think I could probably put up with pygmy goats. After all, they can’t be much worse than Sherlock, probably better behaved on the whole. Come on then, give me a proper kiss, one that's going to keep me satisfied until later. Then we can get back to your parents. They probably think we were off shagging instead of protecting the free world anyway.”

“Doubtless, mummy will not think much of my disappearance, whatever the reason for it.”

“Just ask Thea to send one last text, to both our phones.”

Mycroft frowned. “What should it say?”

**0000000**

“Our apologies,” Greg said, cheerfully, on entering the lounge. Everyone had finished dinner and coffee had been served. “We missed anything?” 

“Not a lot, to be honest,” John said. “Go okay?”

“Oh yes, Myc’s just finishing up with his assistant.” His phone chimed. He checked the text.

 **Crisis averted. Thank you for your input, Chief Inspector. Much appreciated**. 

Greg smiled, and showed it to John, who raised his eyebrows and nodded, just as Mycroft came back into the room. Erica glowered at him, but said nothing. He returned to the conversation, joining in with Moira and Bessie as if nothing had happened. The evening carried on uninterrupted. 

Charades was suggested, and everyone spent a passable hour doing their best to decipher the frankly terrible attempts at miming book titles, movies and musicals. 

“Here’s one,” Greg said, darting up. He mimed a book, and a movie, then held up five fingers.

“Five words…” Irina trilled. Greg mimed a tiny word. “Second word...In? At?”

“On?” Greg pointed at George, who looked smug. The next word came out as ‘the’. 

“Something on the Something something?” Moira suggested.

“Bridge on the River Kwai?” Gordon suggested but Greg shook his head. He grinned, held up one finger, and then mimed stabbing someone. 

“Killing?” Archie said.

“Stabbing?” Rory suggested.

“Oh, please…” Sherlock drawled. 

“Oh, do shut up, Sherlock. This is supposed to be fun. If you think you know what it is, then suggest it,” Erica said. 

“I’ve got it.” John smirked. “It’s Murder…”

“You can say that again,” Sherlock muttered.

“Murder on the Orient Express?” 

“Well done, John. Your go,” Greg said, joining in with the clapping. 

John rose to his feet and mimed a television show. Then he held up four fingers, then two.

"Four words, second word?" 

John mimed small and his audience eventually got 'and'. He held up one finger.

"First word," Irina said. 

John pointed at Greg. 

"Man?" Rory suggested but John shook his head, no. 

"Grey?" 

"Oi, thanks, Sherlock," Greg muttered. 

John shook his head again, trying to suppress a smirk. He tugged his ear, signifying a rhyme. 

"Rhymes with…" Izzy declared. 

John held up his fingers and counted off to four with his other hand. 

"Four? Rhymes with four. Saw? Bore? Core…"

"Door?" Gordon suggested.

"War." 

John shook his head and pointed to Greg again. 

"Oh, for goodness sake," Sherlock muttered. "It's obvious, Gavin is a policeman, which makes him the _law_. Law rhymes with four." 

"Law and," Rory frowned, repeating the words they knew. 

"Law and Order?" Bessie asked, but John waved his hand for more, pointing at Greg again.

"Law and Order, _UK_!" Rory called, excitedly. John pointed to him, nodding, and everyone cheered and clapped.

The evening came to a close when Bessie and Ted apologised but said they needed to get home as they were opening the pub for Boxing Day dinner and they were closely followed by Irina and Gordon soon after. It wasn’t long before Moira was chasing the children upstairs and sleepy goodnights were said to all the adults. 

Once they were alone, Erica rounded on her eldest child. “Seriously, Mycroft, tonight of all nights. Did you _have_ to answer your phone?”

“Nothing I could do, Mummy. Duty calls. I can hardly refuse the PM, now can I?”

“Nonsense. This is _family_ , Mycroft. This is _Christmas_.”

“Christmas, New Year, Easter, Halloween, it matters not. I would still have to respond to a call from that particular number. I am _needed_. My advice is sought. Suffice to say, another crisis was averted that threatened our shores, and that is as much as I can tell you.” Mycroft shot a glance at Greg who smiled, apologetically. “However,” he added, “you persist in your refusal to believe that my presence is required whenever or wherever the occasion warrants…”

“What about family, Mycroft? What about putting your family before your work?”

“I have _always_ put my family first,” Mycroft insisted. “My whole career has been shaped around keeping my brother safe and sane, my sister secure, my country free from danger, and by proxy, my family. This is Christmas, Mummy. Christmas. Is there ever going to be a Christmas where my happiness is placed before your friends?"

“Erica?” Greg said gently. “It really _isn’t_ Mycroft’s fault, truly. We both got called in tonight. As luck would have it, we didn’t have to return to London, which is always a possibility. It was important, and our presence was required. It happens when you sign up to protect Crown and Country.”

“Important how exactly? Do I not deserve to know, considering you, Mycroft, seem to turn my house into the equivalent of GCHQ, just by being here.” 

Sherlock glanced at his mother. He knew that tone. Frosty. Implacable. Annoyed. 

“I’m afraid we can’t say,” Greg replied, staring her in the eye. 

“Can’t say? Or won’t say? Oh, please. Mycroft is always doing this. How do you phrase it, Mikey? You are not at liberty to give details?”

“Official secrets, Mrs Holmes.” Greg opted for formality. “Neither of us is at liberty to discuss details, with anyone at all. I’m sorry, but there it is. Take it or leave it. It’s not that we don’t want to, it’s because we can’t, not even with those we love. In fact, the safety of those we love depends on it. Mycroft has always put you first, in everything he does. I’ve watched him, and I’ve heard him, many times.”

“He’s right, Mummy,” Sherlock said, unexpectedly. John looked at him, startled. “I know you have a hard time believing it, and so do I sometimes, but Mycroft does put us all first,” Sherlock said firmly. “I have to say, I have never been very appreciative of his efforts, but much as it pains me to admit, I cannot deny them. His work does matter.” Their mother was staring at her son with an unreadable expression. 

“I’m afraid that Official Secrets means exactly that, though,” Greg insisted. “We cannot tell anyone anything, but Mycroft is not lying. He is in a position of some power. He is an advisor to the prime minister, to his Cabinet, he sits on COBR meetings, he works with Counter Terror Command, MI6 and the CIA. When we say we cannot tell you anything, we really, really cannot tell you anything. We are not allowed to.”

“Well you jolly well should be. His own mother, always kept in the dark. Rudy was the same. Need to know basis, and apparently I don’t need to know.” She marched out of the lounge. 

"Don't mind her," Archie said gently. "She worries about you, Mycroft. We both do."

"I know, but this doesn’t help anybody,” Mycroft said. “I would not tell you even if I was allowed to. The less you know, the easier it is to protect you both. However, not even I make those rules, Father, and I will not break them, for anyone.”

**0000000**

"What happened?" Sherlock demanded to know, cornering Greg and keeping his voice low. "Since when do both your phones go off simultaneously?"

Greg glanced at him, embarrassed. “Think I just got Mycroft into trouble…”

Sherlock frowned. “What did you do?”

“I asked Anthea to send us a text, an emergency…”

“Oh, I see,” Sherlock said, mind working overtime. “Of course. That little stunt was for Mummy's benefit, wasn't it? Were I inclined to be derogatory, I would have said you wanted to escape the mind-deadening conversation uttered by mummy’s guests, not to mention an opportunity to shag my brother…”

“Sherlock!” Greg objected, nearly drawing attention to them as his voice rose. 

Sherlock grinned, shameless. “It was a ruse, wasn’t it? You engineered a crisis which would allow you both to leave the room, a) to allow you to impress upon our mother how important my brother is, and b) for an opportunity to escape the boredom. I would postulate that you thought that if you were both called out, you could corroborate his story. Damn it all, you should have included us." 

"Sherlock, I was just...I was going crazy, and...well...she really doesn't take your brother seriously, does she?”

“Does anyone?” Sherlock muttered, but at a warning glance from Greg he shrugged. “Mycroft is not at liberty to divulge details about his job, so she simply thinks he’s making it up. Always has done. The mess with our sister didn’t help. She never treated Uncle Rudy seriously. Something about him being a cross-dresser reduced her respect for him, as far as I can make out. She’s not... _prejudiced_ , exactly, but she isn’t really open minded, either. Besides, he was a decade her senior and he always thought he knew better. I'm sure I can't think who that reminds me of," he snarked. "Look, if it’s any consolation, she has never failed to ask me when I plan to get a proper job.” 

“So it’s about time she started taking you seriously, wouldn’t you think?" 

"Well, I suppose a game of charades is traditional at Christmas,” Sherlock suggested, “and anything is better than listening to two middle class couples arguing about which breed of Gallus Gallus Domesticus is superior to the other.”

“Gallus what?” John asked.

“Hens, John. Do try to keep up.” 

“What was that all about then?” John asked, late to the conversation.

"I asked Anthea to engineer an emergency," Greg explained. "It didn't work as well as I'd hoped."

“My apologies,” Mycroft said to the room in general, his smile strained, “but I think I need my bed. Happy Christmas, father…”

“Happy Christmas, Son. It is nice to have you here, all of you. Don’t worry about your mother. She’ll come round.”

"If you'll forgive me, I shall not hold my breath on that account," Mycroft said, on his way across the room. "Goodnight, Sherlock, John. Gregory, I hope you rest well."

Greg smiled. "You too, sweetheart. I'll be up soon." Mycroft paused, a small smile tugging the corner of his mouth up. He nodded, and disappeared through the door. They could hear a murmured exchange, and then Moira appeared, having settled the children to bed in a guest room. They were the only guests staying. She stopped, sensing the atmosphere. "Anything the matter? What happened? Myc seemed a bit...subdued."

"Are they asleep yet, dear?" Archie asked, avoiding the question.

"Nearly. They're still too excited."

"Not to worry, we can all sleep in tomorrow,” Archie said.

“It’ll be nice not to have to be up early for the children,” Moira sighed. “Although I have no idea what to do with them both. They’ll be bored without a computer….”

“Think I may have an idea there,” Greg said. “They’re both bright kids.”

“Too bright for their own good, they have the Holmes’ genes. They’re children, they’re curious, they’re adventurous. They’re both creative, with the truth as well as anything else. They’re reckless, irresponsible…”

“They’re kids. That’s what kids are, although don’t quote me, I haven’t got any.”

“Sometimes, they do not grow up,” Erica said tartly, coming back into the lounge.

“Know what you mean,” Moira said. “My ex-husband for one.” 

“Hm, I could name a few more,” Greg grinned, staring pointedly at Sherlock’s back. He exchanged a knowing glance with John.

“I think,” Erica said, “you could add my eldest to the list. Never the responsible one…” she muttered.

Greg’s face fell, and John rolled his eyes. Greg said nothing, in view of Mycroft’s injunction to please keep the peace. 

“Do the kids wake early?” he asked.

“Yes, they do usually.”

“Okay then, leave it with me. Archie, any chance you have pen and paper spare? Tape and scissors as well?"

"Certainly, dear boy, but what on earth for?"

"Got an idea to keep those two entertained. I can get up early to prep it. I'm not exactly a slouch, even on boxing day." Greg couldn't help wondering if Mycroft was okay, but decided to hold his peace. Time would tell. Besides, he now had a job to do.


	7. The End is the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the end is nigh. I can but hope this hangs together. It's a long chapter but I couldn't be bothered to split it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When we went to my son's first year open evening at his secondary school (High School?) the English teacher had organised a crime scene in the Library with clues to follow. There was a tape body on the floor, and clues directing you to various books. I just adapted that to this story. Greg does, of course, ask permissions.

“Welcome to Death on Boxing Day!” Greg announced, with a flourish. Izzy and Rory had trailed downstairs in the morning to find something weird going on in the lounge. There was tape on the floor, in the shape of a sprawled body, and several sheets of A4 paper scattered around, with writing on them, and rough drawings. Archie was sitting on the sofa, smiling. 

“What’s going on?” Izzy asked, curious, looking at her grandfather. 

“It’s a murder!” Rory crowed. “Isn’t it?”

Greg regarded them from across the room. “So, Detective Constable Rory, Detective constable Izzy, glad you could join me,” Greg said, seriously. “We have a crime to solve. You up for it?”

“Yeah!” Rory almost leapt into the room and his sister wasn’t far behind.

"Right, before we start, some ground rules. Nothing gets damaged in the course of this investigation, even you, got that?" The children nodded. "Good. So no need to dash around, there’s no time limit on this. Keep a cool head, both of you, just like the real police officers do.” Greg pinned both children with a serious stare. “Second, everything you need to work this out is in _this_ room. You're going to have to play Let's Pretend, a bit, because there are suspects to interview, notes to take, and procedure to follow. I'm going to teach you two how a police investigation works, without the boring bits. Now,” he said, getting into his stride, “This might not be like it is on the tele, if your mother even lets you watch cop shows…”

“Sometimes,” Rory admitted. 

“Well, there’s a right way to do things, and I’m going to teach you the right way. So...that okay with you two?" Both children nodded vigorously. "Right then, the dead man was Mr Norman Normal…”

“Norman Normal?” Rory scoffed. “That’s _so_ not a real name…”

“Hey, Mr Normal probably wouldn’t agree, lad. Doesn’t matter what his name is, he’s dead, and it’s your job to work out who did the deed. Do you think you’re up to the task?”

“Course I am,” Rory said.

“Me too,” his sister agreed.

“Right then, as SIO…”

“What’s an SIO?” Izzy asked.

“Senior Investigative Officer. Every investigation has one, not just for murders. He or she is the one in charge, they lead a team—in this case you two—of police officers, to find out what happened. It's a bit like a jigsaw. You put the pieces of evidence together to make a bigger picture. So, detectives, as SIO, that means I am your boss, but you do the hard work on this case. We need the person who did it, a motive...You know what a motive is, don’t you?”

“The reason someone killed him?” Rory suggested.

“Yes, indeed. So we need the murderer, the motive, and the means. In other words, the person or persons who killed him, the reason he was killed, and the way he was killed. I’m kind of giving you a bit of help here already. When the police first arrive at a scene of someone’s death, we don’t even know if it was a murder, unless it’s really obvious. Even then, things might not be as they first appear. But that’s another story. Right then, what do we know about this man?” 

“Nothing,” Izzy said, “yet.”

“Hang on, we know his name. How do we know what his name was?” Rory asked.

“Ah, there’s the question. How indeed? Well, I’m not going to tell you. What would you do first?”

Rory looked bewildered for a moment, looking around the room.

“You could _examine the body,_ ” John whispered, wandering into the room with two mugs of coffee, nudging Rory in the shoulder gently as he passed. “Look for identification.” The boy grinned as John handed off a coffee to Greg.

“We examine the body,” Rory declared. 

“Okay, but be careful not to move anything, if you can help it,” Greg said. “First rule of a crime scene, remember. Do not move anything until it’s been recorded.” 

“Second rule of a crime scene,” John said, “make sure the boss has coffee.” 

The two men shared a grin and Greg passed John a piece of paper. John read it, grinned and nodded. He and Archie shared a conspiratorial look and John took a seat beside the elder Holmes. They were apparently co-conspirators in the game.

A little while later, having been allowed to pick up and read a piece of paper laid on the body, Rory was into his role. “Mr Normal was 35. I found his wallet,” he said, brandishing the bit of paper with the information on it in the air. “It has his driving licence in it, plus…” He looked back at what it listed. “There’s one hundred and fifty pounds in it. Cool, can I have that?”

Greg shook his head. “I am shocked, young Rory. What would your mother say?” he said in mock dismay. Then he grinned. “Scamp. The answer’s no, you cannot take it. A policeman would get dismissed if he took evidence away from a crime scene. What does money still being in his wallet tell you?”

“He was rich?”

“Maybe but that’s not what I was thinking. Think again.” After a while Greg hinted, “If it was a robbery...but there’s money in his wallet?”

“Maybe this wasn’t robbery?”

“Well done, lad. So, once you have a name and a bit of info that the driving licence tells you, you can find out who he is. Now you can look in this.” He handed over a sealed envelope.

Rory opened the envelope and both children read the contents. “We receive the information that Mr Normal lives alone, he’s single, and he was an art dealer with a successful business in Soho…”

“What’s an art dealer do?” Izzy asked.

“Buys and sells paintings and sculpture,” Greg explained. “So, 35, single, lives alone. What does that tell you?”

“That he was a sad individual with no friends?” Sherlock murmured as he wandered into the room, Rosie in his arms. The little girl giggled. Erica peered past them into the room. 

“What on earth…?”

“Greg is keeping the children entertained,” Sherlock explained. 

Erica blinked. “By turning my living room into a crime scene?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said. 

“Well, thank goodness there’s no blood on the carpet,” Erica said, giving her son a pointed look. “I hope you two young detectives are capable of solving this heinous thing. A murder? In my living room? Dreadful!” Erica declared, disappearing into the kitchen. "I suppose I'm going to have to man the cafe, eh? Keep everyone going with drinks and snacks..." 

“What’s heinous?” Izzy asked, when she'd gone. 

“Very, very bad,” Greg said, grinning. He watched as Rory, going to another one of the pieces of paper, reached down to pick it up. 

“Don’t touch that,” Greg advised, “unless you look at where it is first. First rule of a crime scene is…?"

"Don’t move anything," Rory chanted. 

"Second rule, record everything,” Greg said. 

“I thought the second rule was make sure the Boss has coffee?” Rory retorted, cheekily.

“Okay, third rule then. Now, usually there are the SOCOs to do that for you...Scene Of Crime Officers," Greg added before Izzy could open her mouth to ask. "In this case, you're going to have to be them as well. There’s a notebook and pen over there on the table, go make notes. Note down where everything is, and then you can move stuff. Photograph the scene.”

“I’ve got my phone. The camera’s okay.” 

“So DC Rory, start recording.”

A little while later, Rory and Izzy had policed the entire room, found three more pieces of evidence, one under the sofa (Greg’s frankly terrible drawing of a glass tumbler that had rolled under there, with a bit of spilled drink around it, with a fingerprint on it), one inside the window (an equally bad drawing of broken bits of glass) and another behind the flower arrangement in the hearth (a rather wonky drawing of a broken statuette with a heavy base), photographing as they went. There was a piece of paper stuck to the window frame with fingerprints drawn on it, another piece of paper had a (very rough) drawing of a painting of some cows, with another similar painting behind it. 

Mycroft eventually joined them, looking as casual as Greg supposed he managed to get; a soft blue cashmere jumper over a shirt with no tie, soft navy chinos, and loafers, all immaculate. He looked delectable. 

“What are you all up to?” he asked.

“Just arranged a puzzle for the kids.”

“A murder?” Mycroft smiled. 

“Without an actual body,” Greg said.

“Goodness, There's a lot of work here.”

“Did a lot of it after I came to bed,” Greg explained. “Archie let me have a pad of A4 paper and a pen, and found me the roll of tape, not to mention giving me permission to use their front room as a crime scene. I remembered a fairly simple case from when I was a DS. Just simplified it a bit more. Art dealer found dead in his living room,” he said, and lowered his voice so the children couldn’t hear. “Turned out he was having fake paintings made and swindling people. Someone killed him for it. Turned out he wasn’t paying his copyist. It's easy enough, and I'm teaching them how it really works. I got up early to arrange it all.” 

“Do you think they’ll work it out?”

“Bright kids, both of them. We’ll see.”

Erica came into the living room with a tray of tea things. “Sherlock, hand Rosie to Archie and be a darling, fetch the other tray in the kitchen, there’s bacon sandwiches for everyone, and orange juice.” Sherlock handed Rosie into Archie’s delighted arms, and disappeared to collect the tray. Erica set out the tea on the table, handing Archie a sippy cup for Rosie, while the children interviewed John as their main suspect. 

“I’m afraid I have to ask would-be detectives to take a break for a moment to eat, or is their Boss working them too hard?” Erica asked. "The cafe is open for business."

“Go on, the pair of you," Greg said. "Even the police need a break.” He looked up as Moira walked into the room, looking worn. She almost collided with Sherlock fetching the tray in. He smiled at her and hung back to allow her to go first. 

“Hello, dear, did you sleep well?” Erica asked on seeing her niece. 

“Oh, well enough, but...just a lot on my mind I guess. So, this is what he was planning?”

“It seems that Gregory is nothing if not inventive,” Mycroft explained. “At this rate it may take all day…”

“It’s great, mum, we’re working out who killed Mr Normal…” Izzy said, bouncing on her feet with enthusiasm.

“Who on earth is Mr Normal?” Moira allowed herself to be dragged in to see.

“Norman Normal, 35. He was an art dealer. I think he was cheating someone,” Izzy declared, grabbing a bacon sandwich. 

“I think I know who did it, but…” Rory said. “I need to speak to The Boss first. We need a meeting,” he said, looking at his sister. “Back at the station.” 

Greg nearly spluttered his food across the table. He coughed, covering his mirth, then sobered enough to treat it seriously. The children were well into their pretend roles. “Certainly, Detective Constable. Just as soon as we’ve had our break.” 

Mycroft smirked at Greg. “You may well be at this all day.”

“If it keeps them happy. I’ve left out the really gruesome bits, but kids love blood and gore anyway. They’re more resilient than you think sometimes. Don’t worry, I asked Moira’s permission last night.”

“You are very good with children…” Mycroft said, watching Greg entertain Rosie who was currently sitting on his knee, bouncing up and down. He was burbling noises at her and reciting nursery rhymes, with actions.

“Yeah, pity I never had any myself really.”

“Are those two likely to have solved your puzzle yet, do you think?”

“They may think they have, but…” Greg lowered his voice. The kids had joined Archie on the sofa, watching Boxing Day tv while they ate their food. “I have an ace or two up my sleeve.”

“You do, do you?” Sherlock said, retrieving his soon-to-be step-daughter from Greg’s knee. “It was plainly the purchaser of the Millais sketch, wasn’t it?”

Greg grinned. “And that, Sunshine, is where you're wrong. They’re about to get the forensic report on the body, and the toxicology report, and a new bit of evidence, all written in simple terms.”

“You’re not worried it’s a bit...I dunno,” John murmured, retrieving a bun from the plate of cakes on the table. “Violent?”

“No more violent than Assassin’s Creed, John,” Sherlock muttered. “Besides, are you honestly expecting that Rosie won’t find out all about this sort of thing before she’s ten?”

“Not with you for a dad.” John grinned. Sherlock’s look as John wandered off was interesting.

“You okay, lad?”

“I...yes…” Sherlock stared at Rosie for a moment, then sat down. “I…” It sounded as though he was trying to get his brain to reboot. “I really just...just _realised_ , I suppose, that marrying John will mean that I _really_ am Rosie’s father. Well, strictly her _step-father,_ because I’m not her _biological_ father, but...I’ll be the one she grows up with, won’t I?”

Greg smiled. “Yes, lad, you will.”

“I'm not certain I feel up to it…”

“Nobody does, son, nobody ever does. You’ll be fine, mate. Honest. You’re a good man. No reason you can’t be a good dad too.”

**0000000**

“So, Detectives, what have you found so far?” Greg listened to the two children reading off from their notes about who had said what and who had an alibi, perched on Mycroft’s desk. Greg had appropriated Mycroft’s home office as being most suitable for the job of his pretend ‘office’ and the kids were obviously taking it seriously. 

“Right, that sounds very well thought out, but…”

“But?” Rory looked surprised.

“I have a piece of paper here, which is the forensics report on our victim, and this one is the toxicology report."

"What's furensics? And toxi-whatsit?" Izzy asked.

" _For_ ensics is all the sciency bits," Rory explained.

"Toxi-cology," Greg said, saying the word slowly, "is all about what his blood had in it. When you eat and drink, what does your body do with that?”

“Breaks it down, uses it to make sure you can run and stuff,” Rory answered.

“Yup, it uses it for fuel. So, your blood will absorb things you’ve eaten or drunk. So, like if you’ve been taking medicines, or if something has poisoned you, or even if you’ve been drinking beer. Now in real life scientists can take days or even weeks on a test like this, but…” he grinned, “for the purposes of this investigation, the forensic scientists managed to deal with it very quickly, just for you. Would you care to read it, and then take a look at your notes again?”

“Oh, this is too difficult…” Izzy burst out, peering over Rory’s shoulder. 

“No, it isn’t…” Rory replied. “Look at who the fingerprints match.” The children’s eyes met and Izzy’s eyebrows rose. “This tells us _when_ he died…and how…” he looked up. “Come on, Iz, if he died at midnight then…?”

“Then what?”

“Who said they were still at a party at midnight, and that the guests could tell us that it was true?”

“Oh...oooooh,” she said. “I see…”

“Remember, if you need to interview your suspects again, then you can,” Greg said. “Take another look at your notes.”

**0000000**

Greg sat down beside Moira in the living room as the children, heads together, began poring over the pieces of paper ‘evidence’, and their notes.

“They certainly seem engaged,” Moira said. “Thank you for doing this. I hate it when they get bored. They’re impossible…”

Sherlock chuckled. “Typical family genes,” he said and Moira smiled wanly.

“Never leave a Holmes to get bored,” Greg said with a smile. 

“Technically they’re Fanshaws,” Sherlock said. “They’re Uncle Rudy’s grandchildren and he was our mother’s brother. I think we got the genius genes from her side of the family…but don’t tell father...”

“Well, whoever they are, if they’re related to you, I can see why they’d be impossible if they get bored.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Moira said, “they’re good kids. I know I’m biased, but they’re not badly behaved, it’s just this... _situation_ has taken its toll.”

“Of course it has. Seriously, Moira, talk to Mycroft,” Greg said, “I’m sure he can help you, you know?” 

“I just...hate to seem like I’m not coping.”

“I know. Been there, done that,” Greg reassured. “Common enough to feel that way. Help is there though, so use it. Nobody will think ill of you, you know.”

“I know. It’s just…”

“Don’t let your pride get in the way, Moira. I’ve learned my lesson there,” Sherlock admitted dryly, casting a glance at Greg. “The Inspector here has dug me out of many a predicament, as has my brother. They’ll keep you and the children safe, you know.” 

“Of course we would.” Greg looked closely at Sherlock. “Has anybody threatened you, Moira?”

“No...well, not as such…”

“Implied, no doubt. Your ex-husband isn’t exactly known for philanthropy, after all," Sherlock commented.

“What was he like?” Greg asked.

“Oh, he’s charming, very confident, but he can seem very caring and romantic,” Moira said. 

“We were all taken in,” Sherlock said. “He had everyone fooled, even me for a time. It’s all an act, though. I knew he was lying by the second time we met, I just didn’t deduce the extent of it…”

Moira was shaking her head. “I regret every second I spent with him. He lied, cheated with other women, gambled most of our money away too...you knew, though, didn’t you, Sherlock? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Damned if I did, damned if I didn’t. Be honest, Moira, you were in love, so I very much doubt that you would have listened to me, considering not many people did at the time.”

She paused, seeming to deflate. “No, I’m sorry. You’re quite right,” she said with a sigh, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t have listened. I was in love, and it seemed like no time before I had a baby on the way. Every time I took him back...another baby...only the last one I miscarried, and he wasn’t even there. Off with his fancy woman. I found out years later, but then he spent so long gaslighting me, making me doubt my sanity...” 

“Moira,” Greg said, his tone gentle and careful, “I’ve met a lot of people in your place, and seen a lot of this, in my line of work. You’ve done the right thing, getting out, believe me, but whatever else the relationship gave you, it’s given you two lovely bright kids. You’ve done right by them too, so hang onto that. Now, if he threatens you, ever, in any way, call me, or Mycroft, and we’ll sort the bastard out. Legally and permanently. Okay?” 

She gave him a shaky smile. “Mycroft said you’d got divorced too. Did she cheat?”

“Yes, she did. Royally. Took me for a complete fool. I took her back, and then she upped and did the same thing again, twice. With the PE teacher, and then the Headmaster, both from the school she was teaching at. Got her comeuppance though, when they both found out about the other one.”

“And I wonder how they found out?” Sherlock said with a smirk.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Greg said, all innocence.

“Mycroft...I’m glad he’s got you,” Moira said with a smile. “He deserves someone nice.” She sipped her cooling tea and grimaced. “Think I’ll go make another pot. You want more coffee?”

“Nah, tea would be good, thanks. I’ll come help…”

**0000000**

“Can we have a word, sir?” Greg turned at the earnest request and grinned, despite himself. Both Rory and Izzy were standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing hopeful expressions, almost bouncing with excitement.

“Detective Constables, of course, what have you got?”

“I think we know who did it, but something doesn’t add up.”

“Alright, come on, let’s consult.” 

**0000000**

“Dr John Watson?”

“That’s me, yes?”

“I’m going to have to ask you to come with us, sir.” John regarded the young man on his right, and the young lady on his left, with their twin expressions of determination, and did his best to suppress his amusement. “I am arresting you for the murder of Mr Norman Normal and under…” Rory paused, looking at Greg for help.

“Section one, Forgery Act, 1981…” Greg prompted.

“Under Section One of the Forgery Act, 1981, for forging paintings for Mr Normal…”

“I never murdered anybody,” John replied, indignant. “I can’t paint either…”

“Oh, yes, you did,” Izzy said. “We know you painted a portrait of your girlfriend. We’ve examined the evidence, haven’t we, Rory, and you definitely did it. You had access to poisons, and you decided to get revenge when he didn't pay you, and,” the diminutive Miss Marple declared, “You lied about your alibi.”

“You tried to make it look like a robbery, by smashing the window,” Rory said. “But you forgot to take the money out of his wallet.”

“Ah, you got me,” John said. 

“So, read him his rights, Constable,” Greg said. “You remember what to say?”

Rory nodded. “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence...if...if...“ Rory paused. 

“If you do not mention...when questioned…” Greg prompted quietly.

“If you do not mention when questioned...something which you later rely on in court,” Rory declared, happily. 

“Anything you do say…” Greg reminded.

“Oh, and anything you do say may be given in evidence. There, you are under arrest now,” Rory said. “Um...now what do we do?”

Greg grinned, and produced the handcuffs from a pocket. “Cuff him, Constable. You want me to show you how?” Rory and Izzy both nodded, gleefully. Greg turned to John who sighed, in a long suffering way, and stood up, obligingly putting both hands behind his back. Greg smiled at him and muttered in John’s ear, “Anyone would think you’re familiar with this, John.”

“Shut up,” John muttered back. “Just to be clear, you do have the key, don’t you?” he asked. “Would prefer not to spend the rest of Boxing Day in cuffs, thanks very much.”

“Don't worry, John. I’ve got the key on my keyring. Might even let Sherlock borrow these later...He did ask. So…” he turned to the children, ignoring John’s glare. “You never play with these unsupervised, you got that? This is how you handcuff someone properly,” and Greg got on with the demo for his willing pupils. 

**0000000**

“You,” Mycroft said to Greg after lunch, as they were both relaxing in front of the fire, “are incredible. You’ve made my cousins’ week, never mind Christmas.”

Greg chuckled. “I had fun. Kept ‘em busy anyway.”

“John’s face when they handcuffed him and read him his rights…”

“Yeah, he’s a good sport.”

“I took photos,” Sherlock admitted quietly.

“Did you now,” Greg said, grin wide.

“Oh yes, but John did want me to ask you, what are you doing with handcuffs in your pocket on your weekend off anyway?” 

Greg’s grin widened. “What can I say, I like to be prepared,” he replied.

“So where are the children now?” Mycroft asked, attempting to cover his smirk.

“Treasure hunt,” Sherlock said. “We’re asking them to find things, and then work out how the things are linked, but we’re giving them riddles…Speaking of which, I’d best get back to John. He’ll think I’ve abandoned him.” They watched him disappear into the kitchen.

“Ah well, it’ll keep those two active minds busy,” Greg said, “as well as the kids.”

Mycroft laughed. “So everyone is happy,” he said. 

“Yeah, well, even your mum didn’t seem to mind that I made her front room look like a crime scene.”

“At least you stopped short of doing what Sherlock did when he was younger.”

“Which was?”

“Using ketchup in place of blood, with our sister’s doll as the victim.”

“So that’s why your mum looked at Sherlock that way? At least I only had to worry about peeling the tape off the carpet."

“Yes, well, Mummy seems to be in good spirits today anyway.”

“Maybe she and your dad had a good Christmas night…” Greg left the statement hanging.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Gregory,” he warned, “please do not paint me a picture like that…” 

Greg chuckled. “Like what? I merely wondered if your mum and dad got a good rest after putting on that amazing spread yesterday. After all, your mum did work hard.”

“And you know very well, scamp that you are, that is not what you were implying at all.” Greg waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Beast,” Mycroft muttered, but he was smiling. “Why _do_ you have your handcuffs with you, Gregory?” Mycroft asked.

“Nothing nefarious, I can assure you. I actually forgot they were in the inside pocket of my overcoat. I sometimes keep a pair there when we’re on a job.” 

“I’m almost disappointed,” Mycroft murmured.

“Oh? Like that, is it?” Greg said. “Well, allow me to forget my handcuffs more often when we get home, hm?”

“I shall certainly attempt to do so,” Mycroft reassured him.

“So, you going to offer Moira some help then? Seems like she could do with some.”

“Certainly. It does seem like she could do with a boost. Essentially she is a good person, but she picked a rotten apple with Brian Blake. When we were growing up, she and I were always the bookish ones. There’s a big age gap between her and her sisters, and they were never very close as a result. Janetta and Anita are non-identical twins, older by the same gap that separated Sherlock and Myself. They both preferred adult company to being with us children, so Moira was frequently my ally against both Eurus and Sherlock. She’s a few years younger than myself, but...we were kindred spirits. Uncle Rudy was a diplomat for a while, the family travelled to India, Germany, and Japan. Alas, I never saw much of her after I turned fifteen. Eventually Moira was sent to the boarding school her sisters went to, and we didn’t see each other more than once or twice a year. We lost touch for a while, which I regret.”

“So, make up for it now. I swear, if that bugger steps out of line, I’m going to arrest him.” Greg had also decided who to pass his magic onto. He wondered whether Moira would embrace it, or not…

**0000000**

“Really, Mikey, not again…” 

“I am sorry, mummy, but something really has come up. I have to leave this afternoon.”

“What’s up, love?” Greg heard the altercation in the kitchen and went to see what was wrong.

“I am sorry, Gregory, but Anthea has called me. There’s a situation…”

“When do we leave?”

“ _We_ do not need to, but I must. There is nothing stopping you staying here.”

“Yes, there is. You won’t be here. Look, Mycroft, if you go, then I’m coming with you.”

"Gregory, I won't be back by tonight, this has the potential to be difficult."

“Really, Mikey, I am not happy about this… Yet again you are set to ruin our Christmas…”

“Mummy, I am not ruining anything. Christmas is over, and Sherlock and John and Rosie are staying, not to mention Moira and her children. I can imagine you would prefer their company to mine anyway…”

“Mycroft, how could you? You know I like everybody to be here at Christmas…”

“Mummy, let us stop this charade, please,” Mycroft snapped. “We both know you do not want my company, either now or at any other time of the year. I failed you and father, and you persist in belittling everything I do, so why do we continue with this...whatever this is?” 

Erica was staring at her eldest in shock. Mycroft snapped his mouth shut as if terrified he’d said too much. Greg looked between them, uncertain what to say.

“Come on, love, let’s go upstairs and pack, shall we?” he encouraged. “How long before the car arrives?”

“It’s enroute, so perhaps half an hour? We need to be back in London by this evening. Seriously, Gregory, please stay. You can return with Sherlock and John tomorrow. I shall be sending a car for you all. Likelihood is we won’t see much of each other while I deal with this.”

“Yes, Greg, do stay,” Erica suggested. “I would like to chat with you anyway…”

“When this is done, we can go to dinner,” Mycroft suggested. 

“I’d like that.”

“Right then, I shall go pack…” Greg watched Mycroft disappear out of the kitchen.

"I do hope you know what you are doing, Greg,” Erica said, after Mycroft was out of earshot.

“Excuse me?” Greg turned to face her. “What do you mean?”

“Mycroft will continue to do this to you, you know. He will keep secrets. No amount of love will prevent him from doing so, so please don’t think that you’ll be any different. He has missed countless celebrations, never forgets to send something, but he’s never _there_. It is not a recipe for a happy relationship.” Taken aback at Erica’s comment, for a moment Greg did not respond. The woman was veritably bristling with indignation and hurt. “There will be broken engagements, cancelled dinners, holidays cut short. All because he puts Queen and Country before his family. He’ll disrupt your plans, withhold information, not to mention lie to you. If he can do it to his own mother, then he’s bound to hurt you too. Amanda left Rudy for the same reasons. He wouldn’t tell her anything. She was convinced he was making it all up…”

“You think that too, don’t you?” Greg challenged. “You don’t believe your son when he tells you he's important to our Government.”

“Why on earth should I when it sounds like an excuse to avoid us?” came the brittle reply. 

“You don’t believe Mycroft when he says he can’t tell you, do you? Look, Erica, you might as well just come right out and call him a liar to his face.” Vaguely he was aware of Moira hovering at the kitchen door. 

“He jolly well lied about his sister. Why should I believe anything else he tells me?”

“Has he lied about anything else? Does he cheat, or steal, or treat you with disrespect? No. I’ve seen how he treats you, and he treats you with love and deference. He isn’t a perpetual liar, and while it is a pretty big thing to lie about, he’s only done it on one occasion.”

“ _A pretty big thing to lie about_? He lied about my daughter’s death, he denied me all these years of being with her, of trying to help her…”

“Honestly, Mrs Holmes,” Greg said, opting for formal. “Nobody could help her…”

“But I am her mother, and now we’ll never know, will we? Because he took that away from me, from us. I do not want to see him do it to you, too, Greg. You are a perfectly lovely man, and I would hate to see...”

Greg held his hand up, halting her tirade. “Mrs Holmes, Erica…” he took a deep breath. “The situation is this. I happen to think your son is the most...intelligent, gorgeous, elegant man I've ever had occasion to meet. He's loving, kind, and I know he's also generous. He sacrifices a lot for his job, and a lot for you too. I’ve had the privilege of knowing him for the last ten years, and everything he says is true, he _cannot_ tell you what he does or how he does it. It’s called the Official Secrets Act. I’ve signed it too, so I'm afraid Mycroft isn't the only one who won't be able to tell you anything. I’ve seen him at work remember. He’s loyal and honest and...and I hope you’ll forgive me for saying this, but if you don’t start believing him, and recognise how hard he works and how difficult the decisions are that he has to make, how much he cares for you and puts his family first...well...you might be in danger of losing him, too.”

“What? What on earth...How dare you suggest…”

“I dare, because I can see what’s happening here. I know you mean well, but..." Greg sighed and looked her in the eye. "I promised him I wouldn’t rock the boat, but...I hate seeing him not getting the support he deserves. Look, just because you don’t believe it, Erica, doesn’t mean it isn’t true. It’s not right that Mycroft isn’t treated with respect by his own family. I know his little brother’s always resented him, but this...Mycroft carries the weight of the world on his shoulders sometimes. I worry what that stress does to him. He needs your love, and your forgiveness, and your support.”

“I’m not sure I can forgive...It’s quite clear that Mycroft does not respect us…”

“Of course he does,” Greg retorted, for the first time his voice rising beyond his reasonable gentle tone and turning a touch heated. “He _always_ puts his family first, he always puts Sherlock’s safety first. The times he’s sat at that daft lad’s hospital bedside, waiting for him to come down from whatever drugs trip he was on. He took the onus off you, he tried to protect Sherlock _from_ you, however hard that is to hear. Look, if you’re looking for someone to punish, then please, do not punish Mycroft for something that isn’t his fault. I’m sorry, but as his partner, I cannot stand by and just say nothing. What would that say about me as a man, never mind a potential partner, if I just stood back and kept quiet when I see it tearing him apart?” Greg smiled a little sadly. “I’m going with him. Thank you for a truly lovely Christmas. I mean it. You laid on a glorious spread for us, you put in an amazing amount of work, and it was lovely to meet your friends too, to be included. I’m sorry we have to part on less than the best of terms, Erica, but Mycroft is my priority.” He backed out, passing Moira on the way who watched him go with a worried look.

“What’s up with Greg?” Moira asked, entering the kitchen. “Went up stairs like there was a devil on his tail.”

“My son has been recalled to London, I’m afraid, and Greg is going too.” 

“Oh, that’s a shame. It was really nice to meet him, he was wonderful with the kids. Was good to see Mycroft again too. It’s been too long. Okay, so what happened?” Moira asked, looking at Erica’s expression with concern.

“My son…” Erican snapped. “Oh, he’s impossible!”

“What, Mycroft? What’s he done now?”

“He’s...oh, he’s so... _irresponsible_! And that.. _.man_ … Greg is on his side.”

“What’s Mycroft done? I imagine Greg would be on his side, considering he’s Mycroft’s partner.” 

“He will never tell me what he does, or what is going on, or where he’s been. I know there’s more to it all, but he hides. I’m sure he’s lying to me, just like he did about his sister…Why should I believe him, when he’s lied before? Greg’s on his side, he just doesn't understand...”

“Mycroft would never lie to you. He may not be able to give you details, but he would never lie…"

“Oh, you don’t know him, Moira. He’s changed. After the business with Eurus...I can’t trust my own son…”

"That's nonsense, Aunty. Dad told me about Eurus once, just before he died. He told me most of what happened with her. She was clinically insane, and there’s nothing anybody could have done to change that. He always said you blamed yourself."

**0000000**

“Mycroft...I’m coming with you…”

“Gregory...what happened?” Mycroft saw the look on Greg’s face and paused in his packing. “What did she say?”

“Plenty. Look, I’m sorry...but I couldn’t just stand by and listen to it all without...without saying something.”

“What did you do?”

“I broke my promise.” Greg stared at the floor. His shoulders slumped, resigned. “I... I'm so sorry...” 

“I don’t know what to say.…”

“Just call two cars, or drop me off at the train station. I’ll find my own way back to London…”

“Why did you do it?”

“Because I can see what it does to you, to have to face your own mother telling you she doesn’t trust you, she doesn’t believe you. She actually tried to warn me off you, to tell me not to trust you. I can’t listen to that. This relationship will stand or fall based on the decisions _we_ make, and it’s nobody else’s business what happens. I can't be anything to you if I'm not allowed to defend you, Mycroft. I'd fail as a human being if I didn't. I know I promised, but...just no, Mycroft. I...I can't do it…"

“After Eurus….I cannot say I’m surprised at their reaction. I was complicit in a lie that caused them great grief and pain, and I am not sure that I can ever regain that trust. Mummy is...not a very forgiving person.”

“You don’t deserve that, Mycroft. Nobody does, but...I _am_ sorry. I mean, how can we have a relationship if you can’t trust me either? I’m sorry...I just...sorry…” Greg tailed off, turning to leave the room.

“Nobody has ever done that for me before." 

"Done what?"

"Challenged my mother on my behalf. Sherlock did defend me, but...no one has ever taken my side like that."

"What sort of a man would I be if I didn't?"

"Not the Greg Lestrade I know," Mycroft admitted. 

Still with his back to Mycroft, Greg squared his shoulders. "Well...can't stay now anyway. Might be a bit awkward."

There was silence for a moment. A moment in which Greg was convinced Mycroft wasn’t going to do anything, that he’d stuffed up any chance they had, and was therefore startled to feel the man's arms wrap around his waist from behind. Mycroft rested his head on Greg's back. Greg hardly dare breathe. "Does this mean we're good?" he asked, after a short while, when it looked like Mycroft had no intention of moving. He knew his voice was a bit husky with the emotion playing out inside him. 

"I know I don't want to let you go," Mycroft replied. "I also know the only thing I want to come home to when my business with the Yemen is done...is a steaming pot of Earl Grey, a pile of toast, a plate of scones, with jam and cream, and you. You, Gregory, in my home, in my bed. Someone who understands what it means to work late, to have to cancel plans, to rearrange one's life for the benefit of security, National or otherwise. Someone who wants me for me, just as I am, and someone who has the balls to stand up to mummy. I don't want to be lonely, no more do you, so...do we have an accord?"

"Promise I won't break any more prom…"

"Don't," Mycroft said. "Don't make any more promises. I know you will try not to break your promises, but ultimately we both know we'll both be guilty of that in the future. Let's agree that whatever decisions we make, we make with the best of intentions."

"The road to Hell is paved with those though." 

"Sadly, you are right, but I would prefer to travel the road to Hell if you were on it with me, rather than the road to Heaven if you were not." Greg turned in the circle of Mycroft’s arms until they were facing each other.

"Okay then, I promise never to promise anything unless my promise puts you first."

Mycroft smiled. "Just promise one thing, Gregory. Just be yourself, always."

Greg smiled back. "I will if you will." He leaned in and planted a kiss on the end of Mycroft's nose. "I guess I should get moving, Darlin’. Can't keep COBR waiting…"

**0000000**

"Aunty, Greg was right, you know. Do you want to lose Mycroft over this?"

Erica huffed. "Of course I don't," she said. "But…"

"No buts," Moira interrupted. "What's done is done. We've all made mistakes. God knows, I’m not one to talk, but what is it you always like to say, people in glass houses shouldn't hurl rocks?"

"Throw stones, but it amounts to the same thing."

"Yes, well, I think there's been some rock hurling going on, don't you? Dad always said you had a hard time believing him. Although he said you never condemned him for his cross-dressing, he also thought you never really understood it either. That wasn't what drove mum away in the end, you know, at least, not the cross-dressing itself. Nor was it the fact that he couldn’t tell her everything he did at work."

"So what was?"

"She found a man who could love her like she wanted to be loved. Honestly, Dad was a bit ineffectual at showing us that he loved us. He wasn't demonstrative and he wasn’t really into intimacy either, according to mum. My sisters were twins, and then I was a bit of a surprise later on. Oh, he wasn't a bad dad, just… a bit distant. Mum was the huggable one, the one who patched me up and praised my school efforts. Dad was a bit of a mystery until I was older. However, he always told us he never wanted girls. I got packed off to boarding school, like my sisters before me, and dad took Mycroft under his wing. Mycroft was the son he never had, the boy he'd always wanted."

"Rudy always thought he had all the answers. He was always calm in the face of adversity. Did you not resent it, did you not feel displaced in his affections?”

“What affections?” Moira smiled. “I got all mine from mum. Dad wasn’t affectionate really, and honestly, I wasn’t surprised where my dad and Myc were concerned. They were almost two peas in a pod. I was actually glad, they seemed to understand each other.”

“Mycroft is sometimes like a carbon copy of my brother, so sure he has all the answers, hanging onto every word my brother said, regurgitating them whenever he was home...Rudy said this, Rudy said that, Rudy says he’s put in a good word about me to the Foreign Office, Rudy says there’s a good career in Government for someone of my talents.…"

"Is that why you don't trust him? Because he reminds you of dad?" Erica paused, thoughtful. Then she sighed. Moira fixed her with a look. "Has Mycroft ever let you down, apart from the business with his sister?"

"No, he hasn't."

"I know the business with Eurus was pretty big, Aunty. Sherlock told me some of it. He also suggested that if it hadn't been for Mycroft, you might _all_ have been dead, and that's got to be worth something, hasn't it?"

Erica turned away, busying herself with making up some milk for Rosie. "It frightens me, I suppose."

"What does?"

"Not knowing," Erica said. "Moira, I'm their mother. I birthed them all, each and every one. They are _my babies_. That has got to count for something." 

"Once a mum, always a mum, huh?"

"Not knowing if my children are alive, never mind well. You know, he even kept Sherlock's drug use from me too. I wasn't allowed to know, to even offer help, never mind actually do something. Sherlock might have died, and I wouldn't have been with him, I was not allowed to comfort him. I nursed them all through illnesses when they were little. I cared for them. I am their parent. I gave up my career for them, and it was a sacrifice I wanted to make. I blew noses, held heads when they were being sick, I soothe fevered brows, I baked birthday cakes.…"

"Listened to their woes, held them when they cried, read them a bedtime story, helped them with homework...yes, Aunty. I do know,” Moira said gently. "Even though they grow up, they're still our babies, yeah?"

"Yes, they always will be, even if they don't remember any more." 

"Try to forgive Mycroft. He's _not_ Rudy. He's not my dad. He's still very much your son and what he’s done, he’s done to protect you."

"He doesn't need me, none of them do."

"He'll always need you, even if he's got Greg. If he didn't need you, why is this upsetting him so much. What caused Greg's outburst on Myc's behalf?"

**0000000**

"The car is here," Mycroft said, glancing up from his phone.

"Right-o, on my way." Greg emerged onto the landing, clad in his dark blue suit and tan Oxfords. 

"Oh, my," Mycroft murmured, looking him over appreciatively. Greg smiled.

"Go down,” Greg said. “I've just got something I need to do."

Mycroft nodded, hefted his suitcase, and descended the stairs cautiously. Greg took the little box out of his pocket and flipped it open. Inside the heart stone still nestled. He picked it out, gave it a final stroke of his thumb, and set it back inside. He checked the note that went with it and frowned. The wording had altered…

_“Hearts that are sore deserve respite, but hearts that can love despite their own pain are even more deserving of finding their heart’s desire. When the first moon of the year is full, rub this stone three times round with your left thumb, ask for five things, then sleep with it beneath your pillow for seven nights, and you shall have your heart’s desire before the Second moon of the year is over._

_Ask once for someone related by blood._

_Ask once for a stranger._

_Ask once for a friend._

_Ask once for someone who needs it._

_Ask once for yourself._

_You shall know for whom you need to ask. Ask in certainty, and ask honestly. Once you have found your magic, please pass the stone on to someone who may need a helping hand, as I have done to you, and may you have hope, love, compassion, health, and happiness in this New Year, now and forever more.”_

_What,_ Greg wondered, _is going on? That was not the wording in the original note…_ He was pretty sure that for him it had referred to Yuletide, and he was sure the descriptive words in the first paragraph were different. _No matter,_ He thought. He had made up his mind about handing the stone on to Moira. What she did with it didn’t really matter. Giving it over effectively completed his own responsibility. He had fulfilled the conditions and passed it to someone he believed needed a helping hand. What she did with it was up to her. _Would she know it was me? Doesn’t matter. For me, it’s done what I wished for._

He went to the room beside Mycroft’s and opened the door, spying her case open on the floor. He went and settled the box on top of it, and left it there. Then he hurried out to catch up with Mycroft in the Hall. 

By the time he got there, Moira was standing there giving Mycroft a hug. 

“You take care,” she was saying. “Look after that man of yours…”

“And I thought I was going to be taking care of him,” Greg said with a smile, reaching the hall. Mycroft stood back, handing over his case to his driver, and the man silently took Greg’s bag as well, disappearing outside and leaving them to their goodbyes. Moira and Greg both hugged too. “Look after the daft lump,” she said into his shoulder. “Take care of each other, and leave his mum to me and Archie, she’ll come around.”

“We will. Don’t worry. You too. Remember, if you need help, call us, either of us, any time.” Greg handed her a card with his name and numbers. “There, call me at work if you need to. Promise?”

“Promise,” she smiled. “And thank you, for what you did with the kids. They’ve not had such a good time for ages.”

“Call us and visit London, I’ll give them a tour.” 

“Might have to take you up on that.” 

“I mean it. Mycroft can get us into a posh restaurant and I can take the kids round NSY.” 

Mycroft laid a hand on his arm. “Gregory, we need to go.”

“Sorry, Myc. Come on then…” It was then that Erica appeared at the door, Sherlock just behind her. Archie came out from the living room.

“Heading home, my boy?” 

“Sorry, father. I’ve been recalled. Gregory insists on coming with me.” 

“Happy Christmas, was nice to meet you, Greg.”

“You too, sir. Sorry we had to cut it short.” 

“Mycroft…” his mother called. Mycroft hesitated only a moment before stepping aside to talk privately with Erica. John shook Greg’s hand and wished him a good New Year, and Sherlock grasped Rosie’s hand and waved it at him. 

“Uncle Gordon is going home now,” he said to the small girl in his arms. “Pity him trapped with Uncle Mycroft for a whole hour…” 

“Shut up, Sherlock,” Greg complained, but Rosie had other ideas. She pulled her hand out of Sherlock’s grasp, and flung out both her small arms silently toward him for a hug. John grinned as Sherlock let her lean forward into Greg’s receiving arms as he hugged her back. “At least your daughter has better social skills,” Greg said, bussing her a gentle kiss on her hair.

Giving them all one last wave, Greg stepped out of the door, shivering in the cold despite his coat. Realising he was being waved at from the living room window by the kids, he waved enthusiastically back before he slid into the warm interior of the sleek vehicle. He was joined by Mycroft a short while later and then they were off, wheels crunching gravel as they drove out of the drive and onto the road back to London. 

Mycroft was silent for a while as they headed toward the motorway. “Anything up, love?” Greg asked eventually.

“Mummy…” Mycroft fell silent after that one word.

“What about her?”

“She...she had been crying,” Mycroft explained quietly. “Apparently, Moira had spoken to her, after your... _outburst,_ and Moira explained a few things that Rudy had told her concerning my sister. Mummy apologised, and asked me to call when I get home. Didn’t want to part on bad terms, she said.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“I am honestly not sure,” Mycroft replied, turning to face Greg. “It was a surprise, I admit. I do not know everything that Moira said to her, but...she was... _different_ somehow. Less... _brittle_ , in a way.”

“Maybe she sees things a bit differently now? I mean...she’s your mum. What did I tell you about always being a kid in her eyes? Parents can’t easily let go. You can’t make a carbon copy of yourself. It never works.”

“Oh, I don’t think mummy ever envisioned a carbon copy of herself where either myself or Sherlock were concerned, but Eurus was her little girl. She was devastated when Rudy told her Eurus was dead. I couldn’t go back on that lie. I saw what Eurus’ gradual spiral into psychosis did to her. She loved us boys but...she really had wanted a girl, but not the girl Eurus turned into. ‘A son is a son till he gets him a wife, but a daughter’s a daughter all the days of her life’. It was a favourite quote of hers. It was nobody's fault of course. Eurus’ mental illness was her own body betraying her, not her upbringing, despite the nature of mummy letting us run a bit wild in our youth.”

“Nature, not nurture? But your mother blamed herself?”

“Somewhat, I believe. Honestly, I have never known my mother’s innermost thoughts on it, because we have never talked honestly about it all.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“If she is willing to talk to me.”

“Sounds like she’s making overtures.”

“Well, let’s keep hoping, shall we? Thank you, for defending me to her.” Mycroft scooted closer to Greg on the long seat of the car. The screen was up between them and the driver and they relaxed as the car sped toward the capital. Greg slid his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders and they rested comfortably together.

“So, what happens after this meeting of yours,” Greg asked. “You expect it to last a long time?”

“Somewhat. I am taking you to my home first…”

“To yours? You sure?”

“Unless you want to return to your flat?”

“Well...I don’t have to.”

”I will introduce you to my staff. You can make yourself at home. I have Netflix...”

“I’m not sure what to be more surprised about,” Greg teased. “That you have staff, or that you’ve got Netflix.”

Mycroft huffed. “I am not that out of touch, Gregory,” he complained. “I only have the one member of staff, my housekeeper, Mrs Ross. She doesn’t live in, but she won’t be gone before nine. She lives alone. When I return, I usually get my driver to take her home.”

“She’ll be there today? It’s Boxing Day…”

“I sent her a text before we left and she assured me she would meet us there. She’s just going to fetch milk and bread and a few other sundries.”

“That’s kind of her.”

Mycroft smiled. “She’s a kind person. She’s looked after me for the last twenty years. Uses her daughter Tina’s services to help clean, these days, but they’re both entirely trustworthy. You can stay at mine until this is over…”

“You sure?”

“Of course. As I said, I would like it if you were waiting for me when this meeting finishes. If you would like to, of course…” Mycroft’s expression was soft, unguarded.

Greg smiled. “Alright then. I’ve nowhere to be before New Year. Took the time off in lieu. God knows, they owe me enough. I will need to go home maybe the day after tomorrow though, assuming I stay that long....”

“You may stay as long as you wish. Honestly, I would appreciate the company.”

“I’ll have run out of clean clothes by then.”

“I shall have a car take us to yours.”

“I really should check on Mrs Golightly too.”

“Who?”

“My neighbour. Dunno if she’s back from visiting her family yet though.”

“Well, you must not neglect your neighbourly duty, Greg.” Mycroft drew back to look at the man by his side. “You take all your duties seriously, don’t you? Even those dictated by your conscience rather than your job.”

“Of course,” Greg said, with a smile. “Besides, I owe her one. If it hadn’t been for her, you and I probably wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Oh? Do tell…”

“You’d never believe me,” Greg said. “It sounds like a fairytale.”

“Does it have a happy ending?”

“Hopefully…”

“Well, we have a long drive ahead of us, Greg,” Mycroft replied, leaning in and taking Greg’s hand in his, “and if there’s one thing you will find out about me, it is that I am a bit of a romantic at heart. I love fairy tales, especially those with happy endings…” 


End file.
